


an emptying

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Character Death In Dream, Dreams and Nightmares, Grace Removal, Illustrated by sketchydean, M/M, Memory Loss, Nearly Human Castiel (Supernatural), Nightmares, Reunions, The author's affection for Sam Winchester, Violence in Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 04:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: Eight weeks ago, a man found himself on the front porch of a house he'd never seen. With no idea who he was or how he'd gotten there, he could only accept what the police told him: His name was James Novak, and he'd been missing for years.Temporarily housed and working in a shelter, he suffers from recurring nightmares about killing a man named Dean, believing he must've murdered him. But after he's recognized by a young woman at the shelter, the real Dean turns up looking for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story diverges from the canon universe somewhere in season 9 and takes place in roughly 2015. It contains on-page nightmare sequences that are lightly bloody, but there’s no gore (I don’t handle blood well, personally).
> 
> Started for the 2015 DCBB, and finished for the 2019 DCBB 😌 
> 
> Illustrated by sketchydean - [Art Masterpost](https://sketchydean.tumblr.com/post/188567896806/my-pieces-for-the-dcbb-2019-created-for-a) | Beta read by Rachael (theirprofoundbond)

The warehouse dissolved into a sea of colors, a colossus that surged over him: the murky green of infantile oceans; clay tones of an ancient coastal plain; lava erupting molten from the earth’s mouth, red like the sticky-hot blood on his hands. 

Jimmy startled awake.

He lay in a dim beige room with cracked walls; a room with musty, worn carpeting and a tape mark on the wall beside the window. The mark was two inches long and dark around its edges from collecting dust in the residue left behind by the adhesive. Perhaps it had secured a photograph once, a spot of color in the otherwise bleak room. 

It was odd that he knew the words for _tape_ and _paint_ and _photograph_ when he didn’t know his own name. They told him it was Jimmy. James Novak was the name on his driver’s license, the name the officer had called him. Jimmy was the name written in black marker on the strip of masking tape on the bed, but that name felt no more like his than these borrowed clothes, the bland walls, the mattress that did not belong to him. 

Across the room in another bunk, someone adjusted in bed. Sheets rustled before the man rolled over and began snoring. Jimmy wiped away the sweat that had beaded along his forehead. He wiped it on his bare arm. 

He’d had the dream again. He’d lost count of how many times it had come—twenty? Thirty? It always ended the same. 

Tonight, he’d been positioned behind a staircase, in a room he didn’t know outside of dreams: a wide room, a large room, with tall ceilings and a shiny floor. The room had been dark, the floor littered with corpses. The room had hummed with the whirr of an HVAC system, the whoosh of recycled air being pumped into the space. It had been strikingly quiet, no voices and no sounds from outside. It had been simple to make out the sound of breathing. It hadn’t been his; his own body made no sound. Someone else had been in the room. That person’s heart had beat a frantic rhythm, a siren call tugging something within him. 

His footsteps had echoed as he’d stepped out from behind the staircase, approaching the man who slunk along the wall, concealed by shadow. They had both clutched weapons: the man, a gun in two hands; Jimmy, a blade, gleaming silver like a sword. It had a peculiar heft and weight, the surface smooth as water. It had slipped effortlessly from its concealed place in his sleeve, fitting coolly into his palm. He had used this blade before. Though he couldn’t have said where or when, he’d known their history together was great. 

His foot had squeaked on the polished floor and the man had turned, raising his gun in steady hands until he’d seen Jimmy’s face. 

The man’s mouth had formed a word. It was short, just one syllable. A name, perhaps, but Jimmy hadn’t heard it. The word hadn’t been intelligible. 

The man hadn’t fired his weapon. He never fired. Jimmy had raised an arm to strike. 

“No,” the man had cried, his voice dark and deep. Like smoke, Jimmy couldn’t cling to it. The man had breathed that word into the air and it was gone as suddenly as the life in his eyes, which flickered and went dead. 

Jimmy had dropped his gaze to the blade in his hand, seated in the man’s chest. Blood had saturated his shirt and dripped onto the floor. He’d fallen. Jimmy had removed the blade and the task had been done.

Every night he closed his eyes and every night this man came to him: young in years but aged in his soul, with lightly freckled skin and hair with honey tones that glinted when the lights in the room surged on. They always came on after he fell, revealing a minefield of his body, a collection of death. Hundreds of the same man lay twisted in rigor, dead by Jimmy’s hand. 

The man was beautiful. Jimmy had never seen his eyes in the light, but his blood smelled like iron, like Hell. Jimmy didn’t understand why he knew what Hell smelled like, but Hell was the cloying slick of this man’s blood anointing his hands. 

There was never any malice or anger that preceded the killings. Jimmy felt nothing but adoration for him. Blood would well up in the wound, bubble up from his mouth and spill from the corners. Every night, the man stopped moving and Jimmy woke up. 

He scrambled for the bedside lamp, switching it on with trembling fingers. He hovered in the yellow glow, hunkered down in tousled sheets. They were warm and smelled like him, but didn’t smell right. Something was missing. He closed his hand around the cross hanging from his neck.

* * *

When the sun came up, he showered and washed up for the day without looking in the mirror. He could never stand to look at his own reflection after that dream. His fingers trembled from the weight of a blade he no longer held—cramped, as if he’d just laid it down. He flexed his hand and brushed his teeth, scrubbing at his tongue until it no longer tasted bitter, ignoring the skinny man with gray hair who shuffled up to an adjacent sink. 

He shook out his clean shirt to ease the fold lines and dressed next to his bed. 

The kitchen was on the shelter’s first floor. He went downstairs. The building was quiet, most of the residents still asleep. He should be sleeping too. It wasn’t quite six and his shift didn’t begin for another hour, but he wouldn’t close his eyes again until nightfall. 

There wasn’t anything waiting to be done from last night. The evening shift had cleaned the kitchen to satisfaction, and if he started the oatmeal now, it would be too thick by serving time. He pulled up a chair and sat against the counter, under a single overhead light, and drummed his fingers on the surface.

There weren’t any magazines today. Sometimes Marjorie left one for him. They were always well thumbed through, often dogeared or torn along the edges—a consequence, he’d learned, of impatience. He’d cut his finger on a page when he’d turned them too quickly, felt it slice his skin open. Though the wound itself wasn’t visible, he could feel it. It stung for a day, especially when it was wet. Marjorie had called it a paper cut and put a drop of glue on it. It burned for a beat, and then he couldn’t feel it anymore.

The pain in his head was like that. He couldn’t see it, had no way to show it to anyone, but he felt it manifest in the shape of a knife.

As time had passed and the dreams had only grown in intensity, his fear of knives had ballooned. He avoided handling the ones in the kitchen, opting to wash dishes or mop the floor. He was on the waiting list for a position as a sales associate in the thrift store. He’d liked the title as soon as he’d heard it. When Marjorie had described the responsibilities, he’d known it was something he could do. The hours were consistent; he could sleep later. The job included inventory management and handling money, and theft prevention. He would not be expected to handle a knife. Scissors, sometimes, to open a shipping box, to cut away fasteners, but not a knife. The words were a relief when they fell from her mouth, though she cast him a peculiar look. 

He shouldn’t have asked about knives. 

There were two names ahead of his on the list. It wouldn’t be long now. 

With a sigh, he pushed back from the counter and paced the length of the kitchen, then went outside. He wished that he were not alone. His thoughts were too loud when it was quiet. He needed to drown them, to quiet them, if only for a few hours. 

It was so often quiet here. He was regularly left with only his thoughts, residual images from the last nightmare. That’s what Marjorie called them, nightmares. The term was foreign to him when she’d first said it, as he’d stood quaking next to the pantry, trying to collect himself.

“You know, a bad dream,” she’d explained. “You never had nightmares as a kid?”

He had no memories of being a child, or of anything prior to eight weeks ago when he’d opened his eyes and found himself staring up the front steps of a house he had never seen. It was a two-story home with a small portico over the front door, supported by thick square columns. The porch and the yard were tidy: grass mowed short, shrubs trimmed. When he had pushed up onto his knees and attempted to stand, a porch light had flickered on.

“Oh, for the love of—honey, don’t go outside! Call 911. Some pervert’s on the deck.”

It had occurred to him that he hadn’t belonged there, that he should leave, but he’d shivered inside a thin trench coat, frightened of the overwhelming blankness in his head.

“Please,” he’d said to the face peering at him through the door. 

The police had come and moved him to a squad car. They settled him in the back seat in a blanket and asked him questions. His legs stuck out the door; his feet were flat against the pavement. The words from his mouth had been, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

A large man with a bulbous head had squinted at him and wagged a finger. The car’s interior lights had shined off his bare scalp.

“Novak,” said the officer, thumbing through a wallet that had fallen from the beige coat he wore. “Jimmy Novak. I knew I recognized you.” More quietly, to the other officers, he said, “This used to be his house.”

He had been Jimmy from that moment, only he wasn’t Jimmy. He knew that, somehow. Instinctively, he knew that he was not James Novak, but he wore Jimmy’s face and was brought here under his name.

“Heard something happened to you. Real sorry,” the officer had continued. His voice had been sympathetic. The patch on his shoulder was the same deep blue as his uniform and depicted a human with feathers in his hair. The patch said “Pontiac Police.” 

Jimmy rolled those two words over in his head, fearful of losing them.

They’d driven him to the police station, where he stayed overnight on a hard metal bunk. The next morning, they brought him to the shelter. It was on a street called Oakland Avenue in a city called Bloomington. 

“Welcome home,” said a sign above the door. 

He couldn’t remember his home, but he was certain this wasn’t it. He balled his hands and got out of the squad car, then allowed an officer to escort him inside. 

Still, the beds here were more comfortable than the one in the police station. It had been behind bars—a jail cell, he now understood. They hadn’t considered him a threat, but it was policy, just like the assessment an intake worker had done of him as a part of his application to become a shelter resident. It had taken Jimmy a long time to fill out the forms, and a few days later he’d been assigned to a case worker named Lou who’d asked him questions about himself and his background. He’d answered as best he could. 

“Jimmy, I’ll be checking in with you regularly to see how you’re doing,” said Lou, who was kind but not warm.

He’d wanted to tell Lou that his name wasn’t Jimmy, but he’d known it would be easier to accept it for now. 

“Thank you,” he’d said. 

He’d accidentally taken a pen with him from the session. Embarrassed, he’d hidden it inside his pillow case, his one and only possession. The wallet and the clothes belonged to someone named Jimmy, but the pen—that was his now, soon joined by a notebook that he purchased in the thrift store with a dollar from Jimmy’s wallet.

On the first page, he’d written:

_Pontiac Police_

_Jimmy Novak_

He’d met with Lou twice since then. They were scheduled to meet again next week.

There was a skinny strip of grass outside of the shelter and a bench where he often sat watching cars. He sat outside for a half hour, until the sun was up and it was bright enough to read the street signs. A car drove past. It was black with a red stripe and said “Impala” on the back. He stared after it as it slowed at the intersection and made a right, moving out of view. He went inside, but a thought chased him: The taillights had been wrong. 

A noise overhead caught his attention. Someone was out of bed and walking around. A few minutes later, a car pulled into the small gravel lot outside. He went to the sink to wash his hands. He liked cleaning himself. It felt pure and good. He rubbed his hands harder than necessary, lingering on the fourth finger on his left hand, at the spot where it felt oddly numb. He rubbed until the feeling returned, then rinsed the soap from his hands.

“Morning, Jimmy,” Eric said, taking off his coat.

“Good morning,” Jimmy replied. 

Eric put his things in the office and returned to the kitchen to see about the day’s menu. He was a tall man, with shoulder-length hair that he kept tied behind his head. He was older, maybe fifty, and reminded Jimmy of someone he couldn’t name. 

That was frustrating. The information was there, he was sure of it, but it was locked away. He hadn’t told anyone, certainly not Eric. It seemed to be an unspoken rule that residents didn’t pry for information. No one found it strange that he referred to his time before the shelter as “before.” They all had “befores,” he’d learned.

The breakfast service began slowly. Residents and vagrants herded past the serving station. He gave them spoonfuls of scrambled eggs, and stacks of pancakes hee’d ensured were evenly sized and browned on both sides. 

“Thank you, blue eyes,” an old woman with beautiful, wrinkled hands said to him. He blushed and wished her a good morning. She tucked herself in at a table with her back to him, ate, and left. 

She had been here for two weeks. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He wondered every morning. 

He was adapting to the transient nature of the shelter, the understanding that any one of them might leave today and he wouldn’t meet them again. The friendships he formed were as tenuous as his memory. He made sure to smile every time he saw her as though it were the last. 

There was downtime before lunch, after the kitchen was clean. It was too windy to spend time outside, so he went to the office. 

“Marjorie,” he said, smiling at the woman behind the desk.

“Hello, sunshine,” she said, looking up at him. Her face pulled into a frown. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Some,” he said, avoiding her eyes. He pointed to three cardboard boxes stacked inside her door. “Donations?”

“Books.”

He trailed a hand over the crooked line of strapping tape. 

“They need to be catalogued,” she added, tapping a pen against her temple. 

He flushed at his lack of subtlety but picked at the edge of the tape to remove it. 

“It’ll go faster with scissors,” she said, but he stubbornly used his thumbnail to work a corner free. 

“Honey, if the dreams are that bad, you should see someone about them.”

He’d already worked a one-inch section loose and ripped the strip of tape away with satisfaction.

“I got this,” he said. Something in those words triggered a memory; he could see a riddle written on a door—something about numbers—and then nothing. He froze, thinking it might come back if he held still, but it didn’t. 

“Suit yourself,” Marjorie said and passed him a pen and paper. “Catalogue those, would you?”

He sat on the floor with his legs crossed and removed books one at a time, writing down the title and author, and whether the book was intended for adults or children. He liked the children’s books the best. He opened those, mindful not to crack the spine, and laid them across his lap to look at the pictures. They often told a story, but sometimes they were very simple: a guide to colors, a guide to textures. 

He catalogued a book about penguins. The book after that taught children to count. One horse, two sheep, three bumblebees. He touched the caricature of a bee, its bright, contrasting stripes. When he looked up, Marjorie was watching him over the top of her glasses.

“You know you’re welcome to borrow any of those,” she said. 

He dropped his eyes to his lap and slowly nodded. He liked this book, but it would be better to read one meant for adults. The driver’s license with a picture that matched his face said that he was forty-two years old. He felt both younger and somehow far more ancient.

He selected a book with two people on the cover—a man and a woman. A love story, it said. Marjorie quirked an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He left the book on the floor, to the left of his knee, while he completed writing down the contents of the boxes. It took an hour, and when he handed the list to her, it was time for him to go back to the kitchen. He took the book with him. 

He liked his days occupied. After the lunch service, he would attend prayer group before assisting with dinner. There were prayers in the evening, and sometimes residents gathered before bed too. They spoke of dreams, aspirations. Jimmy had only nightmares. He avoided those conversations when he could, but the prayers… Prayer was as natural as breathing. 

That night, he stayed up after his bunkmates had gone to sleep and read in the bathroom. He liked to shower late, and it didn’t bother anyone if he kept the bathroom light on. The book was a good distraction. He read fifty pages before he started yawning. He laid it on top of his clothes while he showered and then next to his bed when he turned in for the night, positioned beside the notebook. He traced a lazy finger over the author’s name: Nora. He frowned at the mental image of a rose and a baby, too vivid to be a passing fantasy, but nothing from the book he’d just read. He opened the notebook and made a new entry.

_Pontiac Police_

_Jimmy Novak_

_Numbers_

_Nora—rose, baby?_

He clicked the pen closed and hooked it through the notebook’s spiral binding. It had cost ninety-nine cents, and had narrow blue lines and a green cover. The green had stood out to him. That’s why he’d bought this particular one. He thought in green a lot. 

He lay back on his pillow, damp from his hair, but it felt cool and clean. He ran his fingers absently over his stomach, over the strange black tattoo inked to the left of his navel. He couldn’t read it, wasn’t certain it was even words, but every evening his fingers returned to it, as his mind returned to the dreams. 

He folded his fingers into his palms and prayed tonight would be different.

* * *

He opened his eyes in a forest, thick with fog and screams. The air was damp and moldy, not hot or cold—stale, like stagnant water. Fetid. Rotting. 

He stood in a circle of trees. It was dark and he was not alone. 

He didn’t hold his blade, but his fingers itched with power. It screamed forth from him, towering overhead in a foreboding display as high as skyscrapers. Behind him, great wings unfurled, six in total. They shielded him, coiling at his feet and around his torso, covering his face, though he could still see. He was composed of eyes. They studied the forest from every feather, hundreds and hundreds of them, and they could see him in return, a sentinel. 

A branch snapped, causing him to whip around. He faced a set of stairs, and from between the risers he made out the man lurking along the wall. He was flooded with a sense of urgency and followed.

The blade slipped into his hand. He didn’t flinch when he plunged it into the man’s chest, not even as the man cried, “This isn’t you. This isn’t you!” and begged him, “_Please_.”

The man died with his eyes open this time, fixed and black.

* * *

Sometimes the people he served called him an angel.

He resented the term. Night after night of baptism in a stranger’s blood had convinced him that he was a monster. An angel would not stab a man to death on an altar. He was only too happy when Marjorie told him that he was now first on the list for the sales associate job, and that he’d begin training in a few days. 

His last day working in the kitchen, the juice machine broke. It stopped dispensing orange juice just in time for the breakfast rush. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eric muttered, smacking the side of the machine with an open palm. Water poured from the dispenser—water, not orange juice. “I don’t get it—the concentrate bag’s brand new.”

Jimmy shrugged. Water continued to drip, splashing into the glass Eric had set beneath the nozzle. Beyond the door the dining room buzzed with people. 

“Guess they’ll have to make do with coffee,” Eric said, but Jimmy stepped up to the machine. He had no experience with machinery, but his right hand felt along the side to a power button. He switched it off and the machine stopped humming. He opened the front panel and looked inside. 

The bag was indeed new, so the problem lay elsewhere. The bag was orange when he touched it, and then it was blue, spilling over his hands, over the drip tray and onto the floor. He fumbled a phone between his ear and shoulder that wasn’t there.

He stared at the mess on the floor and wondered what he should use to clean it up. Eric’s hand settled on his shoulder, and Jimmy flinched. 

“You okay?” Eric asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

Blinking, he observed that the bag was orange and the floor was dry. There wasn’t any blue to be seen.

“I’m fine,” he said, fingers shifting to disconnect the bag. “I think the line needs to be cleaned.”

“You got this?”

“I got this,” Jimmy said, but the words felt strange, like chalk in his mouth. He went to the sink for hot water.

* * *

_Pontiac Police_

_Jimmy Novak_

_Numbers_

_Nora—rose, baby?_

_Blue juice. This makes no sense. _


	2. Chapter 2

After ten weeks, the man in the dream held out both hands, and for the first time, his words were clear. 

“Cas, Cas, this isn’t you.” His face was swollen and bloodied as he pleaded, “Cas—”

The blade sunk neatly into his chest. 

Jimmy sat up crying, biting down on the meat of his hand to keep from crying out loud. 

_Cas._

That name from the man’s mouth—he knew it was his. He scrambled for the notebook and added a new line in the dark, rocking himself afterward.

It was the only thing except prayer that had felt right, the first thing that had felt like _his_—more than a stolen pen and a notebook bought with someone else’s money—but Cas was a sick person. Cas had killed a man. Jimmy held his breath in an attempt to soothe the nausea but dragged himself out of bed and threw up. He slept kneeling on the bathroom floor, forehead resting against the toilet seat. His throat was on fire. 

Come morning, his head ached. His throat had stopped burning, but it was sore and there was an invisible bruise at his hairline. He felt he deserved it. He didn’t know who he was, but he had to be a bad person. Only someone evil could kill another man so brutally. And he _had_ killed him, he was certain of it. 

Then what was this blankness—a second chance? A chance at redemption? He owed it to this man to do better, to live his remaining years piously. Righteously. Maybe that’s why the nightmares continued, so he wouldn’t forget. 

Jimmy—no, Cas_...Cas_ showered and dressed for his first day as a sales associate. 

* * *

Overseeing the thrift store was quiet and repetitive work. It suited him. Cas was content to stand behind the counter and sell donated items to the public: clothing, furniture, and jewelry. He totaled orders and gave people correct change, and smiled at them before they left. 

Days seemed longer than they had when he worked in the dining center. There was too much time to think. He hadn’t considered that. But he kept busy with inventory and communicating the store’s needs to Valerie, who oversaw donations. The amount of items some people offered was humbling—whole carloads they happily gave away. Marjorie confided that many did it for what was called a tax write-off, but a donation was still a donation, and the shelter depended on the money the store took in. 

The work gave him pride. There was dignity behind a cash register, and when he clocked out at the end of the day, his clothes weren’t covered in grease. His case worker said that he seemed open to meaningful change and that if he continued on this path, he would become self-sustaining, ready to look for permanent work and housing. 

The notion terrified him. Life in the shelter was simple and the world outside unknown to him. Here, he was Jimmy—a good worker, an honest person. But out there, he was Cas.

Apprehension must have shown on his face, because Lou smiled and said they would talk about it more later. 

* * *

Cas dreamed of the man on his knees in a dark, musty room, face ruined by his fist. 

“Cas, this isn’t you. This isn’t you—” the man begged, but his words had no effect. Cas continued to strike despite the man’s pleas, despite a voice within him telling him to stop.

“End this,” an unseen woman said. The voice sent a chill through him, but he and the man were alone in the room.

“I won’t hurt him,” Cas thought, but killed him a few moments later in spite of the declaration. He held the man in his arms afterward, cradled against his chest.

“Dean,” he mourned and woke himself with the shout. 

* * *

He wrote the name in his notebook with trembling hands, terrified to lose it. _Dean_. The name was a balm. Whispering it afforded a moment of peace before the nightmare surged back and Cas’s hands were slick with Dean’s blood. 

He could hardly eat more than a few bites of oatmeal at breakfast. He knew his body required food and ate for that purpose alone. It sat heavy in his gut. 

He should call the police. A good person would turn himself in, but Cas went to work and made two mistakes totaling orders. He forgot to take a lunch break, only realizing he was hungry when his stomach growled as he counted out his drawer and Gil, another associate, looked at him quizzically. At least his drawer wasn’t short. 

Cas attended prayer group after dinner and then excused himself to bed early.

“You want to play cards?” Ty asked, but Cas shook his head. 

“Another time,” he lied. “I’m very tired.”

He didn’t sleep. He sat in bed, knees tucked under his chin, and read by flashlight to stave off the dream. It came anyway, creeping in at dawn, finding him asleep with the book on his chest.

“Cas, c’mon,” Dean said. He knelt on a stretch of sand, miles long, curving in the distance. Waves sloshed around his knees, soaking his pants, but he beamed up at Cas. “You gonna leave me down here all night?”

Cas blinked, confused, and shook his head. 

“You have to go,” he said. “I’m not—it’s not safe for you to be around me.”

Dean continued to look up at him expectantly. Cas’s feet were bare; he held a pair of shoes in his hand. His pants were soaked at the ankles. His feet had never been wet in this particular dream before. Dean reached for his hand.

“What do you say?”

_End this._

“No,” Cas told the voice before he cut Dean down in a warehouse. He left a trail of bloody salt water and sand on the polished floor.

* * *

_Pontiac Police_

_Jimmy Novak_

_Numbers_

_Nora—rose, baby?_

_Blue juice. This makes no sense._

_My name is Cas_

_Dean_

_Evening on a beach somewhere_

* * *

The library was only a short walk from the shelter. Cas sometimes escaped there in the morning on his day off to hide among the stacks. No one paid him any mind or questioned why he stayed all day. The books smelled like leather and paper and dust. He liked the weight of a hardcover book in his hands. Words were fleeting, spoken and gone, but he could hold them in this form. 

The collection was well-stocked, much nicer than the meager library at the shelter. There was a bounty of books on every subject he could imagine, but guilt drew him to the religious texts. He liked the Bible especially. Opening it was a homecoming. He touched reverent fingers to the Word of God. 

Someone was already in the section when he arrived, so he waited a few minutes in case they were a casual browser. Maybe they’d come for a specific text and would leave soon, but after ten minutes they remained in front of Cas’s favorite books. It wouldn’t be an issue for them to occupy the section together, but he’d come here for solitude, to escape the unavoidable press of bodies at the shelter. 

He decided to pass the time on the internet. A librarian walked with him to a computer station and helped him log in. She was the same librarian who had taught him to use a computer. He greeted her by name. Keeping the religious texts in sight, Cas rested his hands on the keyboard. The screen instructed him to search for something. 

“Who am I?” he typed, plucking out one letter at a time. The results were unhelpful: a personality test, a German film. He placed the cursor back in the search field. 

“Who is Dean?” he began to type, then backspaced when he recognized the futility. 

“Dean and Cas,” he entered with a snort and pressed “search.”

Google returned nineteen million results. 

The first gave him a name: Dean Winchester. Cas had never seen that name before, but it was repeated in the list of results, and always next to it was another—_Castiel_. 

He mouthed the name, beautiful and ancient. He knew it was older than anything he could see. He glanced around to ensure no one was looking over his shoulder. The librarian was across the room, and only one other computer was occupied. He had no understanding of what he was seeing. The terms were foreign: archive, wiki. He checked his surroundings again and selected the image search. 

The images were of two men. He didn’t know their faces, but one had a long tan coat, longer than the one he’d been found in but similar in color. That alone meant nothing. A lot of people probably owned a coat like that. It was in every picture: a long coat and a tie. The second man wore jeans and a jacket, but sometimes a suit. It was similar to what Dean wore in dreams, although the man in the pictures looked nothing like him. They were drawings and paintings of the two men in diners, lying together on the hood of a long black car, embracing within dark wings. 

There were thousands and thousands of them, beautiful and shameful images. He clicked back and searched just the single word: Castiel. It was an angel’s name, an iteration of the Angel of Thursday. It explained the wings but not the connection to him. 

But he knew it was his name. It was his; it was. 

This was ridiculous. 

He closed the browser in embarrassment and took sanctuary in an art book. He flipped through plate after plate, but no matter how many masterpieces he appreciated, he couldn’t shake what he’d seen. 

His face felt hot when he came upon a painting of an angel. The sting along his cheekbones made him angry, made his vision go soft. The images began to resemble one another. He flipped the pages with conviction only to have a frustrated sound rip from his throat. 

He slid the book back into place and hurried to the men’s room, which was blessedly empty. He splashed his face with cold water and dried it on a brown paper towel. The bathroom was dingy and smelled like urine. 

_Like a gas station bathroom_, he thought without context. Maybe he’d been to one with Dean in the black car. 

The intimate nature of the images haunted his walk back to the shelter. He could feel Dean’s hands on him, the warmth of his palms on Castiel’s hips, the tight heat of his body. Castiel gasped and stopped for air, leaning against the shelter’s brick exterior. The rough texture bit at his hand, but it helped him focus. 

He was tired. He needed sleep. It wasn’t even dinner time, and he’d foolishly missed lunch. Maybe Eric had put aside a sack lunch for him. 

When Castiel went inside, Eric was up to his elbows in hot water, scrubbing a serving tray. He snorted when he saw him. 

“Food’s on the counter,” he said. “Library day?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Castiel opened the sack and ate an apple while standing next to the wall. He took out the sandwich, bread, and cheese, chewing gratefully. 

“Can I help?” he asked between bites.

“Even God rested,” Eric reminded him. “It’s okay to enjoy your day off.”

“Just give me something to do.” 

“If you want to peel potatoes, scrub up.”

Castiel nodded and finished the sandwich before going to the sink to wash his hands. He ran the tap hotter than usual and recoiled from the sting. 

“You find your family yet?” Eric asked, obviously trying to diagnose Castiel’s mood, but Castiel had no wish to discuss it. 

“No,” he said and lathered his hands with soap.

* * *

_Pontiac Police_

_Jimmy Novak_

_Numbers_

_Nora—rose, baby?_

_Blue juice. This makes no sense._

_My name is Castiel. Castiel, Angel of Thursday wears a coat similar to mine_

_Dean Winchester_

_Evening on a beach somewhere_

_Dean drives a black car_

* * *

Castiel stood at the ocean’s edge. Dean approached and led him off of the sand. He kept hold of Castiel’s hand as they ambled over uneven brick sidewalks, past a large hotel thrumming with music and lit up against the night sky. He unlocked a two-story Victorian and shouted, “We’re back!”

An “okay” echoed from somewhere within. Castiel recognized that voice and it made him feel warm. 

Dean set the keys down and let go of Castiel’s hand long enough to take off his shoes and leave them by the door. 

“Sand,” he explained, so Castiel removed his as well. When he straightened, Dean grasped both of his shoulders with shaking hands and kissed him, then took Castiel’s arm and led him up a staircase. It creaked underfoot. Dean closed the bedroom door behind him and unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it on the floor. 

Castiel swallowed, following Dean’s lead. It was the first time they had done this in a dream, but it was good. He removed his pants and his underwear, so they were both naked. Dean’s body was flushed from his face to mid-stomach. He looked nervous, biting his lip, but he gestured toward the bed. Castiel went to him. He let out a small moan at the warm union of their skin, as his hands skimmed down Dean’s sides to settle at his hips. His erection was heavy between his legs. It brushed against Dean’s, and that—that was good, too. 

They exchanged languid kisses at the end of the bed. Dean eased them onto the edge, so that Castiel was seated and Dean sat astride his legs. He put a hand between them to stroke them together, threading his other hand in Castiel’s hair at the nape of his neck while they kissed. 

Dean’s palm was rough. Castiel couldn’t get enough of it. He whispered Dean’s name and Dean jerked them harder. His breathing became labored and his kisses less formed, so that he was exhaling into Castiel’s mouth, panting, “Jesus, Cas, _Cas_.” 

Castiel put his hand on top of Dean’s, circling a thumb over the slick head of Dean’s cock. Dean kissed him hard in return and begged, “Fuck. Cas, please, baby—” until Cas did it again, nudging Dean’s fingers away. 

Dean thrust up into Castiel’s fist and choked out his name as he came on his fingers. He laughed afterward, resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder, taking several long breaths before he reached between them again and brought Castiel to orgasm. 

They kissed in the uncomfortable summer heat, sticky with sweat and semen. What Castiel felt for Dean was something timeless and cherished, something immortal. He felt fused to Dean, unwilling to let him go long enough to switch on the air conditioner. But he allowed Dean to coax him into the shower and blushed when Dean took the bar of soap and sunk to his knees.

“Give me your foot,” he said. Castiel bit his lip and grinned, holding onto the shower wall for support. It was slate, cool to the touch.

Cool like the blade that slid into his hand. 

_No_, he thought. _I won’t do it_, but when he looked down, expecting to see Dean’s smile, the marks Castiel’s teeth had left on his neck and shoulders, he saw the marks left by his fists instead.

Dean bled onto the shower floor, swaying on his knees and begging, “Cas, please—” before the blade rendered him silent. 

* * *

Castiel woke with a sob and rocked back and forth on the bed as he tried to catch his breath, but Dean was dead. Castiel had killed him. He’d loved him and _killed_ him. He pressed his palms together in prayer and thought of his hands as his body and Dean’s body, pressed together in that bed. 

He took out the notebook and in the dark with only God watching, forced himself to confess his sin.


	3. Chapter 3

The images plagued him at work. He counted change for customers, pushing coins in his palm, and the image of a handprint surfaced. He accepted a donation of ties and saw Dean tied to a headboard with one. He saw bodies tangled together in the back seat of a car and slipped with the box cutter.

The sight of blood on his hands had him on the ground, gasping for air as a customer leaned over the counter, calling, “Are you alright, sir? Sir?”

Why had he done it? Why couldn’t he remember anything?

The woman’s voice brought him back to the present, and he gathered his composure.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking up at her—a woman with cropped brown hair and her phone out, probably planning to call for help. “I’ve injured myself. Please excuse me.”

He called the office for a replacement, then went to the bathroom to wash his hands. The blood that dripped from his palm onto the white porcelain sink was Dean’s blood.

In prayer group, he clenched his hands together until it was painful, and before bed, he knelt until he was certain his knees were bruised.

* * *

He had been at the shelter for sixteen weeks when the girl came. She was a young girl, only just slipped into adulthood. He noticed her standing in the food line, a few places in front of him, tapping her fingers against the underside of the tray.

There was nothing remarkable about her appearance. She had long, blonde hair and the guarded expression he saw on tens of faces every day, but something about her had Castiel staring. She hadn’t been to the shelter before. That wasn’t why he knew her. It nagged at him as he accepted a scoop of eggs and found a seat at the end of a long table.

She sat two tables away with her back toward him. When people approached her and ostensibly asked to sit, she nodded but didn’t engage in conversation. She ate quickly—he wondered if she even chewed—then stood to return her tray.

She walked past his table, her jacket brushing his elbow, and he knew he wouldn’t see her again. But she stopped. Her back stiffened and she turned her head, staring down at him.

He looked at her blankly. “Can I help you?” he said.

Disgust flashed across her face, but she quickly hid it.

“Well, holy shit,” she said. “Didn’t expect to see _you_ here.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry?”

She stood for a moment watching him. He could see her thinking. She looked to the door, then sighed and fell in across from him at the table.

“Does he know you’re here?” she asked, folding her hands together. It was clear from her posture and the way she spoke to him that they knew each other well, but he had no idea who she was or who she was talking about.

“Do you know me?” he asked, desperate for the information.

Something in her face changed. If they’d been standing, he felt she would have taken a step backward. “You don’t know who I am?” she said.

He shook his head. She gave a hollow laugh and looked away, the skin reddening on her cheeks. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or about to cry. After a few seconds, she sniffed and wiped her eyes.

“Course you don’t,” she said, looking back to him. “How’d you end up in this place, anyway?”

“They found me in a nearby city and brought me here.”

“Pontiac,” she said.

His eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”

For a moment, she almost seemed to pity him, but then her eyes hardened. “You really don’t remember anything, huh.”

He leaned forward. “Who am I?” he said, but she only laughed humorlessly and drummed her hands on the table once before getting up.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said with a snort. She shook her head and headed for the exit, calling back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you, Castiel.”

* * *

It occured to him, later, that he had not asked the girl her name. He’d been so stunned by their brief conversation, it had been the only thing on his mind for days. He should’ve chased after her and begged for information about himself, but by the time he’d had the sense to get up from the table, she’d already gone.

He spent his next day off in the library, in the warm quiet of his favorite setion. It was empty today. He sat with his back up against the metal shelves and read until his eyes began to droop. Hours later, he returned home feeling lighter and stopped into Marjorie’s office to say hello before heading to dinner.

“You had a visitor, sunshine,” she said, looking up from her computer.

He squinted. “A visitor?”

“Good looking man, mid-thirties. Said his name is Dean.”

Castiel froze in place. It was—it was just a coincidence. There was no way...

It was just a coincidence.

“What did he want?” he asked.

“He said he’s been looking for you for a while, got a call that you were here. He brought a few pictures of you.” She smiled. “You look good with a tan.”

Castiel frowned at his shoes.

“I told him you weren’t here and to leave his number. He said he’s staying at the Days Inn in town and will come back tomorrow.” She passed him a slip of paper but didn’t let go of it right away. “Do you need to talk about this?”

He shook his head.

“If you change your mind, I’m here for another hour.”

“Thank you.”

She released the paper. Castiel folded it in half, hiding Dean’s number, and put it in his pocket.

“We’re all running away from something,” Marjorie said. “Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to run to.”

He nodded.

“Get some food in you. You’re too skinny,” she said. “And get out of my office. I have work to do.”

She winked. He returned it and waved as he left her office.

He was in a fog all through dinner. If Dean was here in Bloomington, it meant that Dean wasn’t dead and Castiel wasn’t a murderer. But if Dean wasn’t dead, then what were Castiel’s dreams—fantasies? Visions of the future? Unrealized plans? Maybe he’d been plotting to kill Dean, and it was that plan he saw played out every night.

He took out the slip of paper Marjorie had given him and studied Dean’s unfamiliar handwriting. He wrote neatly, in all capital letters. He’d printed his first name in the center of the page with a phone number underneath. The top of his five wasn’t quite connected to the rest of the number. Castiel traced the number with his finger, then put the paper away. Marjorie had said Dean was coming back tomorrow, so he would wait.

After prayer group, Castiel agreed to a round of cards with Ty. It turned out that he was good at card games. He had what Ty called a poker face. But as they played, he was distracted by the fact that if Dean had come here to find him, Castiel had no excuse to avoid going with him.

“Jimmy?” Ty said. “It’s your bet.”

“Sorry,” Castiel said, studying the cards in his hand. The others groaned when he won again. He regretted waiting this long to accept their invitation, knowing he’d shortly be the face they wouldn’t see anymore.

* * *

Dean came first thing in the morning, not long after Castiel got to work.

“Jimmy, you have a visitor,” Gil told him, shooing him away from the store counter. Castiel cleared his throat and checked his hair before going outside, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt as he walked.

A long black car was parked in the street in front of the shelter. He didn’t breathe for a moment when he first saw it.

Dean leaned against the hood. Castiel knew him instantly. Dean looked exactly as he appeared in dreams, though maybe a little thinner, with shadows beneath his eyes.

He started when he saw Castiel approaching, relief bare on his face. It slid into a smile as radiant as the one Dean always gave him when they stood together on a beach. He got up and walked toward Castiel.

But Castiel withdrew a few steps, his eyes widening as his heart began to hammer in his chest, a frantic pounding he couldn’t control if he tried. It was the same man. He couldn’t catch his breath, gasping like a fish out of water. _Don’t step on that fish, Castiel, _someone whispered. Lightheaded, he stumbled until his hands touched the building. It held him up while something streaked through his chest and he wondered, dizzily, if his heart had given out.

Dean was at his side, lowering him to the sidewalk and murmuring, “Hey, it’s okay.” He touched Castiel long enough to make sure he wouldn’t fall, then pulled his hands back. Castiel shook everywhere. He drew up his knees and let his forehead rest against them, praying that no one inside had seen what happened just now.

“Can I get you something?” Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head, focusing on his breath to his his heart. Dean gave a strained laugh.

“Gotta tell you, this wasn’t exactly the reunion I had in mind during the drive.”

Swallowing, Castiel summoned enough courage to lift his head. “So you do know me?”

Dean’s eyebrows pulled together.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Thought we could get lunch.”

“I have work,” Castiel said, craving sanctuary behind his counter.

“So get someone to cover you,” Dean said. “Please.”

Castiel searched his feelings. He had no desire to hurt Dean, but he never did until it was too late. Still, if they were in public, maybe someone would be able to stop him if he...

“I’m going to be sick,” Castiel said and crawled to a strip of weeds next to the door. Dean rubbed his back, his face haunted when Castiel sat up and wiped his mouth.

“Better?”

“I need to brush my teeth.”

Dean nodded, pale. “Okay.”

“I need to see if someone can take my shift.”

“Alright.”

“Stay here,” Castiel said. “Please...don’t come inside.”

The shelter was his. Dean didn’t belong there.

“Okay, I’ll just, uh.” Dean pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the car.”

“I’ll be quick.”

Castiel stood up on wobbly feet, refusing Dean’s offered arm. He stumbled back inside and into Marjorie’s office.

“You look like death warmed over,” she said, getting up when he sagged into her doorway.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to finish my shift today.”

“Already have you covered. Your friend came in to speak with me a few minutes ago.”

He nodded his appreciation into the doorjamb and went upstairs to change. He put on a fresh shirt and rinsed out his mouth, scrubbing the bitter taste from his tongue.

Dean was sitting in the idling car when Castiel came back outside. He took a deep breath before opening the passenger’s door and got inside. Dean had his phone out, but he put it away once Castiel was seated.

“Ready?” he asked, looking at him.

“I don’t know you,” Castiel said. It was better to be blunt. “I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know who I am.”

“Let’s get some food,” Dean suggested, eyes shifting away as he put the car into drive.

* * *

Dean was polite and reserved, not like the flashy characters in one of Castiel’s books, leaving him to wonder how much of their relationship had been a dream. Dean was alive, so Castiel patently had not killed him; by extension, the rest might also be a myth. The beach, the Victorian house, Dean naked on the bed—they were likely as fantastic as his nightly murder games. Dean didn’t treat Castiel the way he expected a lover would. Castiel felt relieved.

They sat across from one another at a diner table against a wall. Castiel stared at the menu. Dean fiddled with a salt shaker and alternated between smiling at Castiel and turning to look out the window at the parking lot.

“Sammy and me were in Iowa when Claire called, otherwise I woulda come sooner. I dropped him off and drove straight, through,” Dean said after they’d placed their order. He sniffed and wiped his nose. “How long have you been here?”

Castiel frowned at the table. Claire must be the girl who had been in the shelter last week. “Seventeen weeks,” he said.

“They treating you okay in that place?”

Stiffening, Castiel unfolded his napkin and spread it on his lap. “Of course,” he said.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “Just—I feel like hell I didn’t find you earlier. It’s a damn miracle Claire stopped in when she did. Said she was back home looking for her mom.”

Castiel looked at him blankly.

“Claire Novak,” Dean said, as if it clarified anything. “Jimmy’s daughter?”

It was a moment before the weight of that sunk in. “I have a daughter?” he asked, recalling the girl’s face and blue eyes—yes, there was possibly a resemblance.

“Not, uh. Not exactly. Do you remember anything?”

Castiel remembered killing Dean in a warehouse a thousand times.

“No,” he lied.

Perhaps he was insane. Maybe he’d realized this and left for Dean’s sake, to protect him.

Dean thrust a hand in his pocket and took out a couple items that he slid across the table: a silver ring, a small black wallet containing what appeared to be federal identification. The ring Castiel could explain. It belonged to the person whose face was in his wallet. The police officer said his late wife had been called Amelia. The identification, though...Castiel turned it over on his palm.

“Am I a federal agent?” he asked, studying the wallet. The badge inside bore his photograph. It gave his surname as Stills. Baffled, he looked to Dean, who snorted and shook his head.

“We can talk about that later,” he said. He nodded to the ring and the identification, but they felt as foreign to Castiel as Jimmy’s name. “Anything?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said and handed them back. Dean scowled, but he covered it with a grin and took the items back, returning them to his jacket pocket.

“What happened to me?” Castiel asked, meeting Dean’s eyes, green like the early oceans that drowned him sometimes in his sleep.

Dean sniffed and absently rubbed at his forearm. He looked like he might speak when their server approached with a tray and set their drinks on the table. After taking a long sip, he spoke, but it wasn’t to answer Castiel’s question.

“Sam says hi.” He held up his phone. “Says he can’t wait to see you.”

“Sam?” Castiel repeated.

“My brother.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Do you have a photograph?”

Dean pulled one up on his phone and passed it to Castiel. “Don’t know what his hair was doing in that one,” he said gruffly, but his tone was affectionate.

Sam’s face was pleasing. He had long hair and a warm smile like Eric’s, but Castiel didn’t know him. He shook his head and handed the phone back. Dean pushed a button and tapped on the screen a few times, then turned it around.

“That’s you and Charlie,” he said. Castiel squinted. The image was of him and a young woman with a wide grin and vibrant red hair. He didn’t know her either, but he smiled in the picture and had an arm around her shoulder. There was the ring on his left hand.

“Is this...” he began. Perhaps he’d been wrong about Amelia. “Are she and I...”

“No,” Dean said with a weak laugh, pulling up another picture. “Though she’ll be amused as hell you said that. Here’s one of you and me.”

It was the two of them glaring at the photographer over coffee. Castiel’s hair was mussed from sleep; Dean’s eyes were puffy. They sat at a wooden table in a kitchen Castiel had never seen.

“Sammy thinks he’s the paparazzi,” Dean explained, tucking the phone away. He grinned at Castiel a beat too long.

“How do we know each other?” Castiel said.

“You pulled me out of Hell a few years ago,” Dean said easily, reaching for his coffee. “Pulled Sammy out too. We saved the world together a couple times, kicked the crap out of some demons.”

Castiel wasn’t certain if Dean spoke in hyperbole, so he merely nodded, grateful when their food arrived and it gave him an excuse to stop talking.

They ate in relative quiet, against the din of the restaurant. The food seemed inexpensive but was well made and flavorful—much better than the food at the shelter. Castiel swallowed it greedily.

He protested when Dean reached for his wallet to pay their check, but Dean gave him a look.

“Are you married?” Castiel asked, noticing Dean’s ring for the first time. Dean shook his head and threw a few dollars on the table as gratuity.

“It’s for opening beer,” he said, getting up from the table. Castiel didn’t understand the sudden change in his voice, but he got up as well, gathering his coat, and hurried after him. Dean was waiting at the door.

“After you,” he said, holding it open for him with a half smile. His voice was back to normal, but Castiel still worried he’d overstepped. With a sigh, he walked back toward the car.

Dean played the radio too loud. At the first stoplight, he drummed his hands on top of the steering wheel and turned to Castiel.

“Do you need to get back right away?” he asked over the music.

“No.”

“Anything to do around here?”

Castiel thought for a moment. “There’s a zoo,” he said. “It’s walking distance from where I live.”

“You ever been?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“They charge admission. I don’t make much, and it seemed extravagant.”

He wasn’t surprised when Dean pulled into the zoo’s parking lot and shut off the car.

“My treat,” he said. “Come on.”

It was a small zoo but neatly kept. It didn’t have the majestic animals from the children’s books he loved—there were no lions or giraffes, no elephants shaking the ground with their heft; but there were wallabies and monkeys and otters. He and Dean didn’t talk much as they meandered along the zoo’s paths. Dean stood back at each exhibit, with his hands thrust in his pockets, nodding at passersby when they looked at him. He waited quietly as Castiel went up to each exhibit and looked inside.

Dean bought them both ice cream bars. Castiel’s was shaped like a penguin.

“I’ve read that penguins mate for life,” he said absently, peeling the wrapper away from the chocolate. It broke at angles when he bit into it. The ice cream underneath tasted like vanilla and began to melt in the heat.

“Life, huh?”

Dean hadn’t said it as though he was asking a question. Castiel wasn’t sure how to interpret his tone of voice. Strained, maybe. He was averting his eyes and rubbing his nose with his right hand. The ice cream was beginning to drip.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel said, thinking he’d overstepped again.

“Why would something be wrong?”

“I thought I might have said something that upset you.”

“Nah, I’m just tired from the drive.”

Castiel took another bite and when he had swallowed it, he asked, “What were you doing in Iowa?”

“Looking into a haunting,” Dean said. He seemed to realize how it must have sounded and coughed. “Sam and I, we help people.”

Castiel wasn’t sure if Dean was teasing him or not. “I see.”

“This isn’t ringing any bells?”

“Should it?”

Dean smiled and rescued his ice cream before it dripped down his wrist into his shirt sleeve. When his tongue flashed out to lick his skin, Castiel blushed. He thought, then, of the dream of the two of them in the Victorian house—how Dean’s blood felt against his palms. The scent of it in the air. Castiel began to shake. He didn’t know what this darkness was inside of him. Although he didn’t know Dean, he would never forgive himself if he hurt him. Maybe the reason he’d left had been to save Dean’s life in the first place. Maybe it was a blessing that he couldn’t remember. He ate the rest of the ice cream without tasting it.

They walked around the zoo until closing time. Dean insisted on buying him dinner before going back to the shelter. When they got there, he idled the car in the street outside and put his hands in his lap. The car still smelled like grease from the burgers. Castiel was wonderfully full.

“Look, Cas,” Dean said. “I won’t beat around the bush. I want you to come home, but I know I can’t force you. I got a room here in town for a few days. If it’s okay with you, I’ll swing by tomorrow. Maybe we can talk more.”

_Home_. Castiel repeated the word in his head. He didn’t know what home was, but he knew he wanted to speak with Dean more.

“Alright,” he said.

Dean drew in a quick breath. “Then...good night.”

“Good night, Dean.”

* * *

He didn’t add anything to the notebook when he went to bed that night, only scratched out the last line. He hadn’t killed Dean. But the knowledge of Dean being alive wasn’t enough to ease his worries. As Castiel lay in the dark, his mind raced, refusing to settle. All night he tossed and turned.

When he finally fell asleep close to dawn, he dreamed of Dean licking ice cream from his wrist in a dark motel room. Red neon light came slanting through the crooked blinds. He let the ice cream drip onto Castiel’s chest and cleaned it away with his tongue, causing Castiel to arch up from the bed. Dean got a hand between his legs and Castiel moaned.

“Get hard for me, baby,” Dean whispered.

Castiel lifted his head to kiss him. Dean’s lips tasted like strawberries. Dean took Castiel’s face in his hands and kissed him more deeply. Castiel could feel Dean’s heart beating. He could feel his own erection between his thighs.

“Want you inside me,” Dean said.

The flavor of Dean’s mouth turned sharp, like licking a penny. Castiel’s vision went red. From underneath his back, he pulled out the blade he had concealed. He brought his arms around Dean’s back and drove it home.

“It’s us or them,” a woman’s voice said, but they were alone in the room.

Castiel no longer had any sensation in his body. Dean lay on top of him. “This isn’t you,” he was crying, but Castiel was unmoved by his tears. The blood dripped from Dean’s back like ice cream.


	4. Chapter 4

The dream had terrified Castiel to the point where he was afraid to hold a knife at breakfast. He chose oatmeal instead of the pancakes he’d wanted, but even the silver flash of the spoon’s handle made him jittery. He forced the food down his throat in a few bites, grateful that the quiet routine of the thrift store lay ahead.

He went out back and stood in the parking lot to accept donations as they came in, helping people offload the goods from their trunks into the shopping carts they would use to take everything inside. One young woman gave away what amounted to an entire household: boxes of sheets, two sets of pots and pans. The excess was always shocking, but at least it was being donated. He went inside to make out a receipt for a man with salt and pepper hair, and when he came back outside, a black Impala was parked across the street. Dean was waiting for him with two cups of to-go coffee.

“Can you take a break?” he asked.

He had on the same clothes as yesterday and looked as tired as Castiel felt. Being on his feet after hardly any sleep made him feel like his legs were dragging. The coffee was tempting.

“Let me ask my colleague,” Castiel said.

Mary was an older, stocky woman with short graying hair. Apparently, she didn’t get along with anyone besides Castiel, so they often worked the same shift.

“Would you mind if I take my break early?” Castiel said. “My...friend is here to see me.”

If he’d lived with Dean and his brother in the past, “friend” was probably the correct word, though it felt wrong coming out. He frowned.

“James, I used to run this shop single-handedly,” Mary said, which was her way of letting him know it was fine if he stepped out. He thanked her and removed his name tag.

He and Dean drank the coffee while leaning up against the car. It tasted better than the coffee did at the shelter kitchen, but toward the bottom of the cup it grew bitter. He smacked his tongue against his teeth to clean away the flavor.

“What time do you get off work?” Dean said.

“Five o’clock.”

“Would you, uh...do you want to grab dinner again? We could see a movie.”

Dinner, movies...those things meant being alone with Dean. He’d never dreamed about the two of them in a movie theater, but as he imagined one, he imagined himself killing Dean there. Castiel shuddered and licked his lips. “Dean, you don’t have to spend your money on me.”

It had been the wrong thing to say. The stress was noticeable around Dean’s eyes, the way he held them wide, the way the skin pinched on his forehead.

“I’m happy to talk with you like this,” Castiel hurried to add, lest Dean think otherwise.

Dean’s expression softened. He crumpled the empty cup in his hand and drew in a breath. “Then talk to me over dinner.”

Castiel had no reason to refuse unless he was willing to tell Dean about his dreams, and even then, he had the sense that Dean would invite him anyway. He agreed to meet outside at five thirty, thanked Dean for the coffee, and went back to his shift.

Mary was writing up price tags for the sheet sets that had been dropped off.

“That was quick,” she said.

“We had coffee.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone in the area?”

“He’s from out of town.” He began to check the condition of the cookware. “Mary, may I ask your advice?”

“If you don’t mind getting a straight answer.”

“He wants me to go with him. Apparently I...He says I used to live with him and his brother.”

“Before your accident,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Where does he want to take you?”

“Kansas.”

“That’s a long way from here,” she said. “You don’t want to go?”

“I don’t know them,” Castiel said and corrected himself. “Clearly, I did know them once. He has photographs of me, but I...”

“If they’re your family, I’m sure they want to take care of you.”

He glanced around the thrift shop to be sure there were no customers nearby and spoke in a low voice.

“Do you believe in premonitions?”

She raised an eyebrow without taking her eyes off of the price tag she was writing. “Psychics? That sort of thing? No. I trust the Lord has a plan for me.”

“What if you could see that plan and it scared you? What if...what if you found out that you weren’t a good person?”

She scowled and pinned the price to the sheets, then turned to him. “God has given each of us free will. If you don’t like the man you are, He has given you the freedom to change that.” She patted his arm. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You don’t have an evil bone in you.”

Castiel swallowed the taste of Dean’s blood. “I suppose I’ll be leaving soon then. What...is there anything I need to do in order to...”

“People come and go from here all the time. Don’t you worry about it, though I’ll be sorry to lose you. You’re my best associate.”

“Thank you for your guidance,” Castiel said.

She nodded and turned to look out the window. “Another car just pulled up. I can handle things in here. Why don’t you help them unload?”

* * *

Once his shift had ended, Castiel went to Marjorie’s office. She didn’t blink when he said he would be leaving, only stood up from her desk and shook his hand.

“We’re going to miss you around here,” she said.

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Send me a postcard when you get home,” she said. “That’ll be thanks enough. Will you be leaving today?”

Dean had said he’d gotten a motel room nearby. If they’d be leaving here together, he probably wouldn’t mind if Castiel slept there too, even if it was on the floor. It would be best to let his bed go to someone who needed it, now that he had another waiting for him.

“Yes,” he said.

From the way her mouth twitched, she looked like she’d expected that response and handed him a bag. “For your belongings,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Leave your sheets in the laundry room.”

He smiled and went upstairs to gather his things. Besides his notebook, there was only his coat, the suit he’d been found in, and a few pieces of clothing he’d purchased from the thrift store. It took one minute to collect his life, another to remove the sheets and carry them to the laundry room. He bid farewell to people as he passed them in the halls. They accepted his goodbye easily. This was, after all, a place of frequent comings and goings.

He sought out Eric, who was in the kitchen preparing the potatoes for tomorrow morning. He wiped his hands and gave Castiel a hug.

Dean was waiting with the car when Castiel walked outside. His eyes fell to the bag in Castiel’s hand.

“I don’t own much,” Castiel said.

Emotions flitted across Dean’s face. He scowled and nodded a couple of times, then gestured to the car door. It was a moment before Castiel could open it. He could feel a chapter of his life—the only chapter he knew—closing, and it felt a little like death. He had no idea what waited for him in Kansas.

Dean had gone around to the other side and gotten into the car. He rolled down the passenger’s side window. “Did you forget something?” he said.

Shaking his head, Castiel got into the car and put on his seat belt.

They ate at a restaurant called Cracker Barrel. Castiel was disappointed to learn there was not a barrel of crackers anywhere in the restaurant, but the meatloaf had made up for it. He was still chasing the flavor of fried apples and sweet tea, and trying to figure out the triangular wooden game on the table, with colorful wooden pegs that Dean told him were golf tees. He didn’t know what that meant but memorized the term. After dinner, Dean ordered a slice of cherry pie and ate it with a rapturous smile. Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off of it or the way the cherries stained his lips red.

“We could start back tonight,” Dean said. “But the room’s paid through morning and I’m beat. Do you mind if we crash here for the night?”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Castiel said.

“Room’s got cable and wifi. Not bad for fifty bucks.”

Their server, a man named Luke in a red apron with four stars, brought their bill. Dean took it up front to pay and kept a hand on Castiel’s back on the way out of the restaurant. 

* * *

The hotel was only eight minutes away from the shelter and down the road from the restaurant, a two-story tan building with a blue sign that said Days Inn. Dean parked against the side of the building and motioned for Castiel to follow him inside. The lobby had a shiny white floor and a blue wall behind a reservations desk. Dean held up his key as they crossed the lobby for the elevator bank. On the walls were framed pictures: wispy clouds against a blue sky, a bright yellow print that said “hello, sunshine.” Underneath it was a photograph of a wooden dock extending into a body of water. Castiel paused when he looked at it, feeling it was somehow familiar, though he couldn’t say why.

They took the elevator up a floor and walked three-quarters of the way down the hall before Dean stopped in front of a door.

“It’s a king,” Dean said, inserting his card and pushing the door open. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we’d be bunking together when I booked it.”

“I don’t mind the couch,” Castiel said, grateful when he spotted one. It would be more comfortable than the floor. 

“I can take the couch if you don’t feel like sharing, but the bed’s plenty big.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, surprised that Dean was offering. “As long as it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Nothing about you makes me uncomfortable. Okay?”

“Alright.” Castiel took a breath. “May I borrow the shower?”

“You don’t have to ask me stuff like that. Just do whatever you want. I’m going to lie down. I didn’t sleep too well again last night.”

Without another word, Dean fell backward onto the bed and bent an arm over his face, hiding his eyes. Castiel stared at him for a few seconds, then went to shower.

Dean had undressed and gotten under the covers by the time Castiel came out of the bathroom. He’d left on the lamp on Castiel’s side of the bed. The red cover was pulled back halfway, hanging crooked off of the end of the bed. Dean was covered to his shoulders by the white sheet. He was turned away from Castiel, facing the window. 

Castiel looked from the bed to the couch and back. He wasn’t sure that sleeping next to Dean was safe. What if he had another nightmare? What if he hurt him in his sleep? But Castiel was tempted by the lure of a bed so luxurious, and it was large enough that they likely wouldn’t touch. 

He lifted the sheet and got underneath, almost moaning when his weight sunk into the mattress. It was a hundred times more comfortable than his bed at the shelter, and long enough that he could stretch to his full height and his feet didn’t hang off the end. Warm and full from dinner, it wasn’t a minute until he was asleep.

* * *

Castiel slept for hours, waking suddenly when he heard squeaking outside the door. Someone was probably wheeling a suitcase down the hallway. He listened for a while but didn’t hear anything else, just the sound of Dean breathing and the whirring of the room’s air conditioner. The room had felt hot when they’d gone to bed, but now that the heat from the shower had faded, the sheets held a slight chill. But he wasn’t cold enough that he was uncomfortable, and he could hardly open his eyes, let alone get out of bed and walk to the thermostat.

Yawning, he turned over onto his other side, nearly rolling into Dean, who had at some point encroached on Castiel’s half of the bed. Castiel had no experience sleeping with other people, but he moved around a good deal in his sleep and figured it was normal for Dean to do the same. But lying so close to him filled Castiel with terror. So often in his dreams, they’d lain with each other like this only for Castiel to harm him. Clearly he hadn’t done it—he hadn’t killed Dean, but he knew the smell of his blood.

His heart started to race. He took a breath and tried to calm himself. Nothing was going to happen. There was no knife in this room. Castiel had never even seen a blade like the one he always used: gleaming silver, elongated like a letter opener. Without that weapon, Dean could probably fight back if Castiel attacked him. He went on sleeping, ignorant that the person beside him fantasized about him, about taking his life. 

Castiel thought he was going to be sick. He forced his eyes closed and counted his own breaths. _One...two...three…four… _ Somewhere around forty they stopped coming as quickly, and his stomach settled. His mind pulled him back into sleep. 

He and Dean were standing in the zoo they had visited yesterday. They were standing in front of a cage. Castiel couldn’t see what was inside, but he knew it was there in the back left corner, lurking. Whatever it was, he wasn’t afraid of it. He put his hands on the bars and wrenched them open.

An inferno came rushing at him, singeing the tips of his wings. Thousands of hands reached for him, the damned crying out, trying to stop him from moving. This was his brother’s domain. His feathers were burning, dropping off in great numbers, but still he went forward. 

He had been ordered here, and an army had followed. Castiel was to liberate the Righteous Man from Hell. That purpose drove him forward, in spite of the heat and the pain, the loss of the angels who had set out with him. 

He ripped open Hell. 

He ripped open the zoo cage. In the corner, Dean’s soul was curled in on itself with a knife in its hand, laughing. His soul was fractured, tainted. The shape of a human. It was covered in blood that wasn’t his own. Castiel glanced over his shoulder, outside the cage. Dean was standing there too, still holding the bars, watching. 

The Dean in the corner of the cage had blood in his teeth. “I’ll carve you up too,” he promised, even though he could not stand. He had sinned, but whether he was still righteous was not for Castiel to say. That was for God. Castiel pulled Dean into his arms and carried him, cursing, out of that place. 

Humans were so small and fragile. They were not the smallest nor were they the most fragile of all of his father’s creations, but Castiel was always surprised by their delicacy. Fish were more resilient. Ancient ones had swum for millennia. And yet this tiny, broken human in his arms represented a creation superior to his own. He had never questioned his father, but he supposed he could understand the ire of his brother and his brother’s followers, and the reason for their fall.

He carried Dean’s soul away from Hell, away from the other Dean against the bars. He placed that soul back inside of a body rotting inside a crudely made coffin. With a hand to its shoulder, he channeled his grace, burning life back into it. This, resurrection, was taboo except in the rarest cases. Humans needed death to give them purpose and to limit their power. If they discovered immortality, Castiel believed they would destroy the world.

He held onto Dean until he took his first breath.

Dean opened his eyes and looked up at him, smiling.

“Haven’t I told you that’s creepy? You watching me sleep.”

“I thought you might allow it today,” Castiel said. They were no longer in a coffin. They were in a bright room with old-fashioned furniture, and it was morning. The ocean rolled in the distance.

“Honeymoon rules?” Dean said, turning over onto his back. His eyes were endearingly swollen from sleep. Castiel’s heart felt full.

“If it counts,” he said fondly.

“Course it counts. We said vows, didn’t we? ‘Till death’ and all that mumbo jumbo.”

Death. Yes, they had. Castiel leaned down to kiss him.

“Kill him,” a woman said from behind.

Shivering, Castiel drew a breath just before their lips touched. “No.”

“No, what?” Dean said, stealing a kiss. “We didn’t do it, or it doesn’t count?”

“No, I — I wasn’t talking to you.”

“We’re the only two people in this room, Cas.”

“Kill him, Castiel,” the woman said. “This is your job.”

Castiel clutched his head and rocked back. “I won’t do it.”

“You won’t do what?” Dean said, sobering. He sat up and shook Castiel by the shoulders. “What are you talking about? Are they fucking with you again?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered. The blade was already in his hand. “I’m sorry.”

The change was instant, like gates falling. Moments ago, he’d been filled with tenderness at the sight of Dean’s face; he looked at him now and felt nothing. He felt nothing, only the cool metal of the blade. Plunged into Dean’s chest, it grew warm. 

“Cas, please,” Dean was crying. Castiel watched tears roll down the side of his face, and he watched Dean go still.


	5. Chapter 5

He woke gasping and threw the covers back, stumbling to the bathroom just in time to drop to his knees in front of the toilet before he was sick. Dean called his name, but Castiel slammed the bathroom door, locking it before Dean could follow him inside.

“Cas? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit it’s nothing. You bolted out of bed. Are you sick?”

“Yes.”

“Was it the food? I saw a vending machine on the first floor. You want me to grab you a soda?”

“No.”

“Will you let me in?”

Castiel wanted to open the door, and he wanted to run as far away from Dean as he could. If he went with him to Kansas, this would only continue. If he could convince Dean to go back to sleep, Castiel could sneak out before he woke up again, but Dean had tracked him here. Castiel believed he would look for him again. The only way to ensure Dean wouldn’t follow him was to make him understand.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Castiel said miserably, his forehead against the toilet rim.

“Hurt me? What are you talking about?”

“It isn’t safe for you to be near me.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I believe a lot of stuff,” Dean said. “Try me.”

Castiel felt his stomach churning and was sick again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I dream about killing you every night. Even before you found me, I would dream about you.”

“That… It’s probably just your memories coming back.”

“Have I hurt you before?” Castiel said.

“I don’t want to lie to you, but there’s a lot of other stuff you need to understand, and I really don’t think this is the time to go over it.”

“So the answer is yes.”

“Yeah, technically. We’ve both hurt each other.”

“I’ve tried to kill you?” Castiel said. 

“You weren’t yourself. You’d been brainwashed. You didn’t have a choice.”

“Who brainwashed me?”

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know once we get home, but for right now, would you please open the door?” Dean tried the handle again. “Cas? Cas, please talk to me. I know you’d never hurt me. If you can’t trust yourself, at least trust me.”

Castiel reached back blindly and unlocked the door. Dean came in quietly. He dampened a washcloth and handed it to him to wipe his face. Dean’s own was ashen. He helped Castiel off of the floor, holding onto his arm as he led him back into the room, to the bed. 

Castiel shook his head. He couldn’t imagine lying down with him again just now.

“Please,” Dean said. “Just for a little while. Please.”

Castiel’s body felt as fragile as the soul he had carried in the dream. He kept to the very edge of the mattress with his back to Dean, afraid to turn over.

“Am I really an angel?” he said.

It was such a long time before Dean said anything, Castiel thought he must have fallen back asleep. But a few moments later, there was a rustling. Dean’s weight caused the center of the bed to dip. His hand came to rest between Castiel’s shoulder blades. 

“You were a seraph,” Dean said finally, stroking his back. “Try to get some sleep.”

And though it was a while before he was able to, Castiel fell asleep with the pressure of Dean’s hand on his back. 

* * *

They drove for nine hours and thirty-eight minutes from Illinois to a town called Lebanon, Kansas, stopping three times for fuel and food. 

Sam was waiting for them inside a place Dean called “the bunker.” Castiel had thought it was a strange name for a house at first, but as he descended the metal staircase, he understood it was no ordinary house. If he had to describe it, it looked more like military bases he’d seen in movies. Cold, like a police station. It had appeared rundown from the outside, but there was opulence in the decorative metal railings, soaring carved columns, the wall sconces. A polished concrete floor. He hesitantly stepped down onto it. Castiel had no knowledge of real estate, but he knew this place must have cost a lot of money. He had _lived_ here? It didn’t feel familiar. He had no sense of ever having been inside of it, but Sam looked the way he did in photographs. He smiled at Castiel warmly and gave him a quick hug.

“Welcome home.”

It felt no more like home than the shelter had the first few weeks he had lived there, but Castiel smiled at Sam and followed him down the hallway to the room he’d prepared for him.

It contained a double bed, and a nightstand with a lamp and alarm clock. Castiel stood in the doorway for a moment taking it in. He had no memory of ever having his own space before. He carried the small bag of belongings into the room and set them down on the nightstand.

“The bathroom is two doors down. Your clothes are in the closet,” Sam said. “You don’t have too many of them, but we’re probably making a Walmart trip in a few days. We can pick out more then.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “Both of you, for everything you’re doing for me.”

“Cas, you’re family,” Sam said. He laughed a little and patted Castiel on the shoulder as he left the room. “As soon as you’re ready, I’ve got dinner.”

“What did you make?” Dean said from the doorway. He was leaning against it with his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t come inside. 

“Burgers. Not as good as yours, but I figured you’d both be hungry after the drive.”

“Starved,” Dean said. He caught Castiel’s eye. “Kitchen’s down the hall. Take your time.”

Castiel nodded. They left him alone in the room. He stood in the middle of it and turned in a slow circle, waiting for some detail to jump out at him as one he had seen before, but after three turns he was merely dizzy. He spent a few minutes taking his things out of the bag, the sound of crinkling plastic echoing in the silent room. He put his underwear, socks, two shirts, and extra pair of pants in an empty drawer. The suit he hung in the closet. He left the toothbrush on top of the dresser to put in the bathroom later. 

He wrote a final entry in the notebook: _Dean has taken me home. I am going to figure things out. _The notebook and pen he laid inside the nightstand drawer. He didn’t think he would need them anymore.

He located the kitchen by Dean’s voice and the scent of food wafting down the hallway. Dean and Sam were sitting at a small kitchen table in a sunken room off of the left side of the hallway. Castiel stepped down to join them. Dean looked frustrated when he did, scowling, but he motioned to the chair next to him.

“Sam made your favorite,” he said.

“I’ll get you a plate,” Sam said.

Castiel waved him off. “Don’t get up. I’ll help myself.”

There was a large bowl of green salad and a plate of burgers. He filled half of his plate with greens and took a single burger, joining them at the table and bowing his head in prayer. 

“That’s all you’re eating?” Dean said. “You usually eat three or four.”

“He can get seconds,” Sam said. He’d already finished his first burger and cleaned his mouth. “So, Cas...I thought it might be a good idea if we give you a tour of the place. Who knows, maybe if you walk around you might recognize something.”

Castiel had been planning to explore on his own later, for the same reason. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that,” Dean said. 

The rebuke made Castiel feel awkward. “I—I apologize.”

“Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that, Cas. Sorry.”

Castiel nodded tightly and set down his food. 

Sam sighed. “Look, I think we’re all feeling a little tense. Let’s just go easy on each other and finish eating.”

Dean stood up. “I need a beer.”

He drank three before dinner was over and trailed behind Sam and Castiel with a fourth in his hand as Sam walked them through every room of the bunker. Every time he opened a door, Castiel hoped there might be something beyond it that he could latch onto, but as the doors they opened multiplied in number and nothing happened, his mood fell.

Eventually they came to a room unlike all of the others. Instead of being filled with artifacts that reminded Castiel of the thrift store, it was filled with vehicles. Most of them were cars. He spotted one motorcycle. Before he could examine it more closely, Dean led him to a more modern-looking gold car. 

“Got her shined up for you,” he said.

Both he and Sam looked expectant. Castiel knew from their expressions and from what Dean had said that this car must have been his. He focused on it, but no matter how long he looked, he couldn’t remember anything about it. When he said as much and Dean glanced away, he wished he hadn’t said anything.

They toured the bedrooms last. When Sam opened the door to Dean’s room, Castiel held his breath as he stepped inside. While he couldn’t say that he had physically been here, there were elements of the room that were familiar, as though he had seen photographs of it. He had dreamed of this place. He had seen visions of himself with Dean in this bed, of Dean dead in this room.

“Cas?” Dean said, catching him as he backed up too quickly and stumbled.

“I don’t know it,” Castiel said, and whether Dean believed him or not, he nodded and let him out of the room. 

They showered and changed for bed, and gathered in a comfortable room that had a sofa and a television. Dean was the only one having dessert. He ate a bowl of ice cream that contained four scoops, making a rude hand gesture at Sam when he commented about Dean’s health.

“You want a bite?” Dean said to Castiel, holding out the spoon. In his time at the shelter, Castiel had only seen immediate family share utensils, usually parents and children. But he opened his mouth hesitantly and allowed Dean to slide the spoon inside. 

The ice cream melted on his tongue. Strawberry. Castiel swallowed it quickly and refused the next offer.

Dean had put on a television program about a physician. He kept the remote in his hand as he watched, crossing his arms over his chest, and while they sat on the same couch Castiel couldn’t help but notice the distance between them felt deliberate. Sam, on the other hand, occasionally tapped Castiel’s arm when he wanted him to notice something on the TV. 

An hour and some minutes later, when they said goodnight in the hallway, Dean put on the same smile he had worn that first day in Bloomington.

“That was an interesting program,” Castiel said. 

Dean nodded. “Glad you liked it. If you get cold in the night, I’ve got extra blankets in my room.”

“Alright.”

“You get some rest. Don’t worry about getting up in the morning. If you need anything, I’m right next door and Sammy’s usually up late.”

“Thank you, Dean.” He winced when he realized he’d said it again. He wanted to offer his sincere thanks to both brothers, but if it made Dean that uncomfortable, the least he could do was respect that. “Good night,” he said and when Dean didn’t say anything right away, he added, “See you in the morning.”

Dean gave him a funny look then, a sort of wistful smile. He patted Castiel’s arm. “That’s a promise.”

* * *

Though Dean had promised to tell Castiel about their past, he didn’t bring it up the next day, and Castiel didn’t know how to breach the subject. Dean spent the afternoon in the garage polishing his car. Castiel felt awkward approaching him and stayed in his room until dinner. 

Two days later, he and Sam drove north into Nebraska to visit a store called Walmart. He had heard of Walmart on television, but this was the first time he could remember being inside of one. They picked out groceries. Castiel found a postcard to send to Marjorie and selected new packages of socks and underwear. Sam took him into the men’s clothing section and encouraged him to try on a few things.

“It’s good to have extras,” he said. “In our line of work, things can get...well, bloody.”

“Bloody?” Castiel said, wondering if Sam was being literal.

“Trust me,” Sam said. “You’ll be glad you have a clean pair of pants.”

“If I’ve been working with you up until now, why don’t I already have pants?”

Sam cleared his throat and glanced away. “Would you believe me if I said it was a job change?”

“No.”

Sam sighed. “Let’s check out and talk more in the car. It’s not really something we can talk about here.”

They picked up a tub of ice cream for Dean and went through checkout. Castiel felt guilty that Sam paid for everything, but he had no money to his name. The identification in his wallet wasn’t even his. As soon as they were in the car and the rumbling engine drowned any noise from outside, Castiel turned to him.

“How much do you know?” Sam said.

“I’m not sure. I can only remember the last four months. Everything else is fragments. I…Did Dean tell you about what happened in the hotel?”

“He said you were afraid of hurting him.”

Castiel nodded. “I’d like to ask you some questions. I’d like you to confirm things I think might be true.”

“Okay.”

“Dean said I was an angel.”

“Yes.” 

“But I’m not anymore?”

“I believe you’re human now, yes.”

“Was it by choice?” Castiel said. 

Sam opened his mouth but didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. “Sort of. Your grace—I guess it’s like the angel equivalent of a soul?—was taken from you. We weren’t able to get it back. You ended up borrowing grace from another angel, but it was diminishing, so you chose to remove it.”

“How long ago?”

“About eighteen weeks.”

“Did I really pull Dean out of Hell?” Castiel said. 

“As far as I know.”

“Why was Dean in Hell?” 

Sam swallowed. “He made a deal to go in my place.”

“And the young woman who found me...”

“Claire Novak,” Sam said. “She’s the daughter of your vessel.”

“Vessel?”

“You needed a vessel when you left Heaven. It wasn’t possible for you to come here in your true form. Jimmy agreed to be that vessel for you.”

“Where is he now?”

“He died a long time ago. He’s in Heaven now, I think. Your current body was rebuilt, so I guess you could say it’s yours?”

“Is that why I ended up in Illinois?”

Shrugging, Sam scratched his head. “Probably. You went back to the place where you took over his body.”

Castiel nodded. He wasn’t sure how he felt about any of that. 

“Why is there art of people who look like me and Dean on the internet?” he asked. 

“Oh.” Sam laughed. “There’s a book series based on our lives. The fans are pretty passionate. It’s best not to Google yourself. Ever.”

“I see,” Castiel said, filing that information away. “Did I know someone named Nora? She had a baby?”

“Nora?” Sam frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember anyone by that name, but we help a lot of people.”

“Have Dean and I ever been to a beach?”

Sam cleared his throat, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Cas, I really think you need to talk to Dean about this.”

Castiel turned toward him. “Why do I dream about killing him?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Maybe it’s your brain trying to process what it’s able to remember about the time when you were brainwashed.”

“Or maybe those tendencies are truly in me and I shouldn’t be around either of you.”

They were both quiet for a while. Then Sam said, “I don’t think they have a way to connect to you anymore. Even if they wanted to reactivate whatever it was they did, I don’t think they’d have a way to do it.”

“It’s always a particular voice I hear. Do you know her name?”

“I think it was Naomi.”

“Are you afraid of me, Sam?”

Sam met his eyes. “No. And neither is Dean. If we didn’t want you with us, we wouldn’t have spent the last eighteen weeks looking for you. Please trust us.”

Castiel nodded. “The ice cream is probably melting,” he said, remembering the cooler in the back seat. Sam opened his mouth, but without saying anything, he patted Castiel on the shoulder and switched on the radio.

* * *

Living with Dean continued to unsettle Castiel, especially the mornings after a nightmare, but he found comfort when he would drag himself into the kitchen and see Dean at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Dean would pat the seat beside him and they would drink their coffee in silence. Sometimes he’d nudge Castiel with his elbow and point out something interesting in the paper, turning his head and smiling before that smile would freeze and fall away, replaced by something wistful, like he was looking for the person Castiel used to be. 

But he was alive. No matter how brutal the dreams, or how awkward those moments were when Castiel was not the person Dean sought, Dean was _alive_. 

As the days went past, Castiel thought more about what Sam had said. Maybe the dreams were nothing more than the residue of what Heaven had done to him, fused with fragments of what he could remember. He trusted them less and less as the days went on. 

And as for the other part of the dreams, Dean had never made an advance on him, usually keeping his distance. He’d departed twice for a case, leaving Castiel behind with Sam. Castiel would have been fine if they had both gone, but he understood why they were reluctant to leave him alone. Both times when Dean had come home, he’d looked at Castiel in a searching way, hoping there had been a change while he was gone, but Castiel never had good news for him. Twenty weeks had passed since he’d woken up in Bloomington, twenty-one, twenty-two. He couldn’t remember anything before the first.


	6. Chapter 6

He’d been living in the bunker for two months when he found it.

All he had been looking for was a blanket. It was cold underground. Castiel couldn’t get his feet warm, even if he kept his shoes on. He had gone into Dean’s room. He never came here, but Dean had said there were extra blankets in the closet. He should have asked Dean to get one for him, but Dean was out and Castiel hadn’t wanted to bother Sam. 

He pulled a navy blanket from the closet. As he did so, something fluttered from the shelf and fell face down on the floor. It was the size of his palm, rectangular and white. Curious, Castiel bent down to retrieve it, planning to put it back. But when he saw what was on the other side, he froze.

It was a photograph. 

It was a photograph of Castiel and Dean on a beach. Behind them was a row of red and white striped cabanas. Dean had on a black swimsuit and sunglasses. Castiel was tanned and laughing. 

His hand shook as he looked at the picture. He had walked that beach countless times in his dreams, he knew that if he could somehow peer inside of the picture and turn his head to the right, there was a pathway leading up to the promenade. If he crossed that promenade and the street on the other side of it, the house where they had stayed was a half block away. He could smell the briny air, feel the film of salt water on his hair, the weight of a ring on his left hand.

He took the photograph to his room and sat with it for a long time, thinking. It had been taken by someone else, but he didn’t think that person was Sam. Sam had never been with them on the beach. He had never been in any of the nightmares. 

If Castiel and Dean had really taken that trip, what other pieces of the dreams were true? Dean had shown him a ring in the diner in Bloomington. Castiel had assumed that it belonged to Jimmy, but looking back, why would Dean have shown him someone else’s possession? The ring must have belonged to him. For Dean to be the one carrying it, for Dean to be the one to bring him home, did that mean he...

Castiel had dreamed of killing Dean on an altar once.

He couldn’t ask Dean directly. He felt instinctively that it would be cruel. He found Sam in the war room, sitting at the table with a book, and laid the photograph on the table. 

“I married him, didn’t I.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. Something soft came over his face. Reaching for the photograph, he nodded. “About two years ago. We were out East on a case.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” 

“I don’t think he wanted to put that kind of pressure on you,” Sam said. He laid the photograph back down. “We thought it’d be better if you got settled in first...see if being back here jogged any memories.”

“What else is there that you’re not telling me?”

Sam licked his lips and glanced to the door. “Dean’s really the one you should be talking to.”

Castiel slammed his fist on the table. “Do you think I’m unable to handle whatever it is you’re going to say?” 

Sam didn’t flinch. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “We knew another angel in your situation. She only had fractured memories of who she’d been before. They drove her crazy to the point where she was hospitalized. People thought she was delusional. She lived like that for years.”

“You don’t think my memories will come back on their own.”

Sam shook his head. “That’s why it didn’t seem right to tell you about you and Dean. He and I are like strangers to you right now. To force a marriage that isn’t really yours...You might not want it. And I don’t think Dean wanted to hear you say that.”

Castiel took a moment to let that sink in. “What happened to her? To the other angel?”

“I actually wanted to talk with you about that. The lore on angels is pretty poorly documented. It makes sense. You weren’t down here for a few millennia.” Sam marked his place in the book and set it down beside the photograph, then rocked back in his chair. “I’ve been trying to look into the effects of grace removal. What I found is mostly speculation, so all I really have to go off of is what we’ve seen.”

Castiel nodded and Sam continued.

“The first time you had your grace removed by someone else, you became human, but you still knew who you were. This last time, you vanished and ended up like Anna. So I don’t think it’s caused by removing grace but by _how_ it’s removed. You and Anna both tore yours out.” 

“Tore it out?”

“You weren’t doing so well. The stuff you were running on wasn’t yours.”

Feeling suddenly weary, Castiel pulled out a chair and fell into it. “So because I removed it, you think I damaged myself?”

“Something like that.”

“Anna…did she ever…”

“Yeah. When she got her grace back.”

Castiel looked up hopefully, but Sam was shaking his head. “You tried to find it, for a long time, but you weren’t able to. That’s why…” Sam mimicked pulling something from his throat. 

“I see,” Castiel said.

“But the good thing is that we found you. And who knows, maybe you and Dean will fall in love again. How many people get to do that twice?”

Castiel nodded slowly. It certainly wasn’t the end of days. Sam and Dean could fill him in on details about the past. There was plenty of time for feelings to develop—they were already there, in the dreams, if he could sort them from the nightmares. But those still frightened him. If the beach had actually been real, what about the rest of them?

No. He had to get it back. He needed to know that he wasn’t dangerous, that he wouldn’t hurt them or anyone.

“I have an idea of how we might recover your memories,” Sam said, as though he could read Castiel’s mind. “I mean, I have no idea if it’ll actually work, but I know of one place were there might still be some of your grace.”

Castiel looked at him earnestly.

“Claire,” Sam said. “You possessed her a few years back. It wasn’t for long, just a few minutes, but if there’s a chance there’s any of your grace left in her, maybe we can extract it.”

“Extract it?” Castiel said.

Sam nodded. “It’s not fun. You did it to me once before. It hurts like hell.”

“Show me.”

They went to the storage room where Sam produced an old tin box and a stack of papers.

“Extraction needle for angelic grace,” Castiel read, thumbing through the yellowed documents. Opening the box, he found an intimidating syringe and swallowed hard. “I would have to use this?”

“You’ve done it before. It could be a part of you still remembers. It’s worth a try.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” Sam said. 

“Do you think Claire would agree to it?”

Shrugging, Sam took out his phone and scrolled through his contact list. “One way to find out.” He tapped the screen once and the phone began to ring. 

* * *

Sam told Claire he wanted to talk but hadn’t given her any details over the phone. They filled Dean in on the plan during the ride, once it was no longer practical to turn around if he objected to the idea. 

“Also…” Sam said, looking out the passenger window. “Cas knows. About you two.”

Dean’s eyes flicked up, catching Castiel’s in the rear-view mirror before looking down again. “_Why_ does Cas know?”

“I asked Sam,” Castiel said. 

“You…” Dean’s voice was guarded. “Why would you ask that?”

“I found a photograph. I was looking for a blanket.”

Dean was quiet for a few seconds, rubbing his neck. “I forgot I stashed ‘em up there. Sorry if it shocked you.”

“It didn’t,” Castiel said. “It confirmed some things, actually.”

“Alright. If you have any questions, we can talk about it later.”

Castiel inferred that Dean wasn’t comfortable discussing this in front of his brother and turned the conversation to the weather. 

After another eighty miles, they packed into a booth at a family restaurant five hours from Lebanon. Sam sat next to Claire, whose long hair spilled out of a green hooded sweatshirt that had seen better days. Although the food smelled good, Castiel didn’t have an appetite. He’d only taken a few bites of a turkey sandwich, leaving the fries for Dean. Wisps of a spiderweb waved from the light fixture above the table.

“No,” Claire said as soon as Sam finished explaining their plan. “Hell no. No wonder you losers were in such a hurry to see me.” She pushed away her cheeseburger platter and furiously wiped her hands on a paper napkin. 

“Claire, we would never push you into this,” Sam said, hands folded together on the side of the table. “We just want you to consider—”

“Letting the amnesiac wearing my dad’s face jam a huge fucking needle in my neck to extract something you’re not even sure is there.”

“Is that true?” Dean muttered, looking at his brother. “You’re not _sure_?”

“Castiel only used Claire as a vessel for a short time,” Sam said. “But it makes sense that some of his grace would have remained behind.”

“It doesn’t matter ‘cause you’re not doing it,” Claire said. 

“Nobody’s touching you without your permission,” Dean said. “We’re just talking.”

Claire turned steely eyes on Castiel. “You’re the one who’s gonna benefit from this and you’re not even saying anything. Aren’t you going to plead your case?”

Castiel took a deep breath. “I know you’re angry with me because of what happened to your father.”

“Angry doesn’t cover it.”

“Claire…” Dean said, but Castiel cut him off. 

“Let her speak.”

“It’s not just my dad. My mom’s gone too. My parents lost their lives because my dad believed in you. He was so proud of being chosen. He raised me to be devout. But if this is what devotion gets you, I don’t want any part of it.” She was crying now, but her tone was furious. “You have no idea how much my mom and I suffered after he was gone, the things people said about him. My mom lost her mind. And now I don’t have either one of my parents. My family was ruined because of you, but you want me to help you get your memories back. Well, I’d happily switch places with you. I wish I couldn’t remember!”

Something tightened in Castiel’s chest. He clutched at it uselessly. “I—I’m sorry.” He swallowed, at a loss for words. “I know saying that doesn’t change anything.”

She fixed him with cold, wet eyes. “Would you do it again? Knowing what happens to us?”

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know.” He opened his mouth again but no more words came out. He ducked his chin. Dean put a hand on his leg under the table, then jerked it back, then shakily laid it down again. Castiel put a hand on top of his. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Claire, I just want you to know that if you decide to do this, it’ll mean a hell of a lot to me.”

“And what, that’s supposed to move me?” She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “At least you and I have another thing in common now.”

“What’s that?”

She stared at Castiel. “Having him look at you like he doesn’t know who you are.”

They stopped talking. A server came by with a pot of coffee and refilled their cups. Claire ordered an ice cream sundae. Dean, his hand still under Castiel’s, continued to pick at the remains of his meal.

“Claire,” Castiel said quietly. “If there is anything I can do…”

She laughed humorlessly and stuck a heaping spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. “You could put on a suit and get me access to my parents’ bank account. Not that I expect there’s much left.”

“Of course,” Castiel said. 

Her eyebrow ticked up. 

* * *

Twelve hours later, Castiel fussed with his tie as he walked into a Citibank, and within a half hour, Claire had a debit card and signing rights on a savings account that had formerly belonged to James Novak. Surprisingly, Amelia hadn’t touched the funds. Claire would be set for a while if she was careful with the money. 

They had breakfast with Sam and Dean afterward. Claire devoured a waffle smothered in strawberries and whipped cream. 

“I guess I have to let you do what you want now,” she said, cramming a forkful in her mouth. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” Castiel said. “That money should’ve been yours.”

“How painful are we talking?”

“Pretty bad,” Sam said. “Although I felt better later, getting it out.”

“This’ll solve your problem?” Claire said.

“We hope so,” Dean said. 

She poked around in the remains of the syrup lake on her plate. “If I need you to play my dad again, are you game?”

Castiel brightened and nodded. 

“You’re buying me dinner. And you’re paying for my hotel for the week. I want a nice one, not the kind these two normally stay in. Something with an indoor pool. And it’s got to have free breakfast.”

“Whatever you want,” Dean said. 

Sam located a Hampton Inn not too far away and booked two rooms. The hotel was nicer than the one they’d stayed at in Bloomington. Claire bought a bathing suit and went to soak in the hot tub. Sam took a book and went to the lobby for coffee, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the double he’d reserved for the three of them. Dean took the tin box out of his bag and laid it open on the bed.

“Sam said this is what you used last time. Does it look familiar?”

Castiel studied the large syringe again and tried to imagine holding it, but nothing came to him. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Give it a few seconds.”

Although he was trying to appear nonchalant, Dean was holding back a smile. It slipped out every time their eyes met. He believed this would work. But Castiel’s eyes kept drifting to the syringe. He’d have to use it when Claire decided she was ready. If he did and still had no idea what to do, he would have to watch that smile die on Dean’s face.

“Anything particular you want for dinner tonight?” Dean said. 

“I don’t think I could eat.”

Dean sat on the bed and patted the space beside him. “It’s all in there somewhere,” he said. Castiel sat down next to him. He studied Dean’s eyes. Up close, they were the mossy green he’d dreamed of so many times. 

“I want to remember you,” Castiel said. 

Dean licked his lips. “Maybe, uh…” He leaned forward an inch, and when Castiel didn’t retreat, he leaned closer until their mouths were touching. Castiel opened his mouth and let Dean inside. 

Dean put his arms around Castiel and kissed him until he was out of breath. His arms grew gentle, and he seemed to melt against him. 

Eventually, Dean pulled away. “Anything?”

“I’m aroused,” Castiel said, embarrassed. 

Dean laughed. “Yeah, me too.” He resumed kissing him and put a hand between Castiel’s legs, touching him through his jeans. Castiel moaned. He lifted a hand to touch Dean in return, and had just laid it on Dean’s thigh when he heard the rattle of a handle and the door opened.

“Figures,” Claire muttered. 

They broke apart. Dean leaned forward over his lap and put his face into his hands. “Great timing.”

“Should we come back?” Sam said. 

“No,” Dean and Castiel said in unison. The shock had ruined his erection. Castiel stood and smoothed his clothes. Claire had a towel on over her swimsuit. The ends of her hair were wet and she smelled like chlorine. 

“Claire and I were talking,” Sam said. “Since it’s afternoon, there aren’t that many people in the hotel. This might be the best time to do it.”

“Our room or yours?” Dean said.

“Mine,” Claire said. 

Dean closed the box containing the syringe and motioned toward the door. The three of them followed her down the hallway and stood behind her while she unlocked her door.

“This doesn’t look weird at all,” Dean said, eyeing the end of the hallway. Castiel surmised he was looking for a security camera. “Three guys, going into the room of a...how old are you again?”

“Shut up,” Claire said. “Just get in here.”

They waited in the room while she changed in the adjoining bathroom, coming back out in black shorts and a long-sleeved shirt with an outrageous magenta flower print. She pushed aside clothing strewn across the bed and took a sip from an open can of Coke on the nightstand. 

“Make yourselves at home. So where am I sitting? Bed? Chair?”

“Chair, I think,” Sam said. 

She went to the desk and pulled out the task chair, flopping into it, then pulled her hair to one side. “Okay, stick me.”

Dean shook his head and opened the box again. He handed Sam an alcohol pad.

“Show Cas where he extracted it from you,” he said. 

“My neck,” Sam said, turning his head. “I don’t know if you can see the mark, but it’s just under—”

“I meant on _Claire_,” Dean said. 

“Oh. Here, just like in the diagrams.” Sam pointed to a spot on her neck below her ear and tore open the alcohol pad to clean her skin. 

She flinched. “How do you know for sure that’s where his grace will be?”

“The grace is circulating throughout your body, but according to the research by the Men of Letters, there’s an energy point in the neck. It’s the easiest to access.”

She seemed to accept that answer and canted her head, giving him access. Sam touched the alcohol wipe to her skin and cleaned a wide area. He turned to Castiel and nodded, then looked at the box.

Castiel held his breath. Hands trembling, he reached for the syringe. Sam had inserted a new glass vial and sterilized the needle. All four inches of it gleamed. Castiel couldn’t say that he had held this syringe before, but with it in his hands, he suddenly knew what he was doing. He could picture the process with clarity. 

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I got this.”

Claire squeezed Sam’s hand as Castiel gently pushed the needle through her skin. She cursed, sucking in air through her teeth. 

There was no need to rush. He sunk the needle in one inch and pulled back on the plunger with just enough force to begin the flow. Clear liquid streamed into the vial. He squinted, pushing the needle in further. 

“Fuck,” Claire said, her eyes welling up. “Did you find it yet?”

“You’re doing great, kiddo,” Dean said. “Whoa, don’t move.”

Sam patted her shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but hold still. It’ll be over soon.”

Another minute went by. Blood had leaked into the vial, staining the fluid pink. Sam was watching Castiel’s hands with a guarded expression. He’d said it had been many years since Claire had served as a vessel, that this was a long shot, but Sam believed it could work. Dean believed he was getting his husband back. Claire was enduring this for their sakes and the only thing coming into the vial was blood. Castiel had seen enough of that for a lifetime. There wasn’t any grace left in her body. They’d put her through this ordeal for nothing. 

Realizing he’d failed, he sighed, his shoulders rounding slightly. But that movement shifted the position of his arm a few millimeters, and something ice blue and luminescent flowed into the vial. 

Castiel gasped. “Sam,” he said. “Dean.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he smiled. Castiel continued to pull back on the plunger, doing his best to keep his trembling hands steady. 

“He found it,” Dean told Claire, who was clawing at his hand. “We’re almost done.”

She made a wounded noise to indicate she’d heard him and sucked in a breath. 

The grace filled only a tenth of the vial. Was it enough? Sam didn’t seem to think so. He didn’t tell Castiel to stop, just fed Claire encouragement while glancing at the vial every few seconds. The plunger was halfway out, but particles of grace kept flowing into the vial, filling it to a quarter of its volume. 

At three quarters out, Castiel adjusted his hands and Claire moaned. The sound broke his heart. He wouldn’t do this to her anymore. He pulled the plunger the rest of the way out, dragging with it a few final wisps of grace, and laid the syringe aside, fearful he’d drop it otherwise. He held out a bandage to Sam, who applied it to Claire’s neck and patted her hair, kneeling down on the floor with Dean. The two of them spoke to her quietly for a while. Sam handed her a tissue and she blew her nose. 

“You did awesome,” Dean said. 

“I cried way more than you did,” Sam said. 

She laughed through her tears. “Let me see it.”

Sam removed the vial from the syringe and gave it to her. She held it in her palms, watching the blue grace twist and swirl. 

“This was inside me all this time?”

“Yeah. Weird, huh?” Sam said. 

“How’re you feeling?” Dean said. “Do we need to run you to the hospital?”

She shook her head. “I might throw up, though.”

“You can puke all you want. As soon as you feel up to it, we’ll go anywhere you want for dinner.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Sam said. “Why don’t you two…”

“Of course,” Castiel said. 

He reclaimed the vial of grace from Claire’s hands and placed it into the box, then knelt down beside the chair. 

“_Thank_ you,” he said. 

Claire didn’t look at him, but she nodded. 

Dean and Castiel left the room. They didn’t speak until they were back in their own. 

“You okay?” Dean said. 

Castiel didn’t answer him. In truth, he wasn’t sure how to answer. He was ecstatic. He was sick that he’d hurt someone else for his own benefit. 

“Will Claire be alright?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah, she’s a tough kid. Anything happens, Sam’s with her.”

Dean took out the vial, looking at it softly. The unearthly blue light reflected in his eyes. He pressed the vial into Castiel’s hands.

“I want you to know, you don’t have to do this,” he said. “If you’re happy with the way you are, then you should stay that way. There’s a lot of stuff you’re probably better off not remembering.”

“Wasting it would be unfair after what we asked Claire to endure.” Castiel took the vial from Dean’s hand. “How do I...do we have to inject it?” 

Dean took a breath. “I think you kinda inhale it,” he said. 

Slowly, Castiel opened the vial. The grace swirled upward toward the opening—not quite liquid and not quite air. It had no scent or weight. The vial was no lighter when the grace left it.

Castiel opened his mouth and drew it into his lungs. The grace entered him like a thousand butterflies, overloading his senses, flowing through every part of his body. Overhead, the lights shattered and he passed out. 


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel dreamed that he was standing in the war room. He was coughing. Dean and Sam were seated at the table. 

“I don’t know,” Sam was saying. “I can’t find anything in the books about the effects of borrowed grace. From what I can tell, it’s festering in him.”

“Festering?” Dean said.

“Degrading might be more accurate,” Castiel said. He wiped his mouth. “There’s less of it every day, and what’s there is weak. The best solution would be to tear it out.”

“Tear it out? What do you mean? What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll be reborn, or if the grace has diminished enough that I will only be reset.” 

“As in you don’t _know_ us?” Dean said. 

“That’s a possibility,” Castiel said. 

“This can’t be the only option.”

“I’m not sure there’s another one. I don’t know of any way to stabilize it. Once it’s faded completely, I might...I don’t know.”

“Die?” Dean said.

“It’s also a possibility.”

Sam spoke up. “But you _can_ live without it as long as you take it out completely?”

“In theory.”

“When are we talking?” Dean said. 

“Immediately,” Castiel said. 

Seeing the look on Dean’s face, Sam said, “It’s no good to wait. For all we know, the rate it’s breaking down might speed up.” He got up from the table. “I’m going out for a while. You guys can…”

“Thanks,” Dean said. 

Sam put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder as he went past, patting twice. Castiel briefly raised a hand to put on top of it, resting his palm on the back of Sam’s hand. 

He and Dean didn’t talk until Sam had left. Dean stayed seated, but when the door closed, he flattened his hands on top of the table and pushed upright. 

“I don’t want to talk in here.”

Castiel followed him down the hallway to their room. He closed the door and stood with his back against it. Dean sat bent over the end of the bed with his head in his hands. 

“How long have you and Sam been talking about this?”

Castiel knew that wasn’t really what he was upset about. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said. “If I thought there were any other way…”

“Cas, please don’t ask me to do this.”

Castiel came closer, kneeling down beside the bed in front of Dean’s legs. “You don’t have to do anything. Just wait for me.”

“Are you gonna...vanish?”

“I’ll likely be transported somewhere.”

“How are we supposed to find you?”

“Have faith.”

“Faith.” Dean laughed even though he was crying. “If you’re reborn, then what? You’ll visit me in a nursing home once you’re grown up?”

“Our time on Earth won’t be our only time together.” Castiel needed to believe that or he wouldn’t be able to go through with this. He put a hand to Dean’s face and kissed him. “I love you. You don’t know what a miracle that is: that I could meet you, that I could learn to feel like this.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. For me too.”

“Would you prefer I wait until later today? If there’s something you’d like to do first…”

“I can’t…I’m not gonna be able to stop thinking about it.”

“Of course,” Castiel said. 

It was terribly quiet in the room. Dean wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, patting the spot beside him. 

“Sit with me.”

Castiel did, holding Dean against his side. “I’ll find you,” he said. “Or you’ll find me.”

They were quiet for a while. Dean rubbed the ring on Castiel’s left hand. Eventually he took out his phone and took a single picture. The flash had made the background too dark. Dean cast the phone aside. 

“I lied,” he said, turning his body toward Castiel and kissing him. “Let me hold you.”

Dean embraced him in the cold, dark room, and Castiel told himself this was not the last time he would know the warmth of Dean’s body or the strength of his arms. It was not the last time Dean would kiss his forehead or whisper his name. There would come another morning, someday, when Castiel would wake beside him again.

They decided it was best if both brothers witnessed the removal in case anything went wrong. They watched a movie until Sam came home. He brought lunch. They ate, and when they had finished, Castiel solemnly rose from the table.

A place with no memories was best. They chose the spare bedroom beside Dean’s. Castiel hugged them both, then twisted off his ring and dropped it into Dean’s palm. 

“When we meet again, give this back to me.” 

Dean closed his fingers around it. “Alright.”

Castiel smiled. He reached toward his center, never taking his eyes away from Dean, and tore out the borrowed grace. 

There was pain and then there was nothing, just a void, just a perfect empty space. In the void, there were no sensations. No wind, no light, no scent, no sound. Just being. He had no shape or form or weight. He existed, and that was enough.

Time did not exist. Whether he was there for a nanosecond or an eon, it was the same. He was outside of it, ageless. A single point of consciousness. There were others, boundless others on all sides of him, billions above him and below him stretching to infinity. A universe. They were separate and they were connected, each of them. He had come home.

Castiel (he was not Castiel any longer, he was no one and he was everyone) was in paradise.

Light came first. Light and the sensation of wind over his skin, of gravity pulling him downward. He was falling, hurtling back to Earth. The heat built and scorched his wings when he tried to open them to break the fall. He would never open them again. In a moment, he would not remember they had been his.

The ground caught him. It hadn’t hurt as he feared. He could feel the cool grass underneath his fingertips, the scent of damp soil. It had recently rained. Slowly he opened his eyes. The world was dark. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was merely nighttime wherever he was. The moon was out. 

He examined his hands. He had never seen those hands before, nor the suit he was wearing, nor the beige coat. He didn’t know how to fasten the tie at his neck. 

Moonlight spilled on a house across the lawn from where he was lying. He didn’t recognize it, but confused and alone, he dragged himself off of the grass and stumbled up the stairs like an animal on new legs, wobbling as he reached for the doorbell. He knew what a doorbell and what a house was, but he did not know whose house it was, or who he was. 

That’s what he told the police when they came for him a few minutes later. He couldn’t remember who he was or how he had gotten there. 

“Hey, I think I know this guy,” one of the officers said. “I think this used to be his house.”

They kept speaking in hushed tones. The homeowner stopped yelling, and the looks everyone cast him turned to pity.

“Is there anyone we can call for you?” someone asked him. 

He shook his head. Like the first page of a notebook, he sat empty in the back of a squad car on the way to the station.

The identification inside the wallet he carried confirmed what the officer had said: his name was James Novak. But he was not James Novak. His blank mind rejected the idea. 

They let him stay the night, and in the morning an officer with blonde hair said they had gone to high school together. She had heard what happened to his family. 

“Where have you been all this time?” she said. 

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

She drove him to the shelter where a tall black woman came out to meet him. She smiled and offered her hand.

“My name is Marjorie. I’m here to help you get back on your feet.”

“I’m…” He paused, finding it hard to say, but he couldn’t ignore what seemed to be true. “I’m Jimmy.”

* * *

Castiel sat up in the hotel bed, sweating. 

“Hey,” Dean said, brushing the hair from Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel wasn’t sure if this was real or if it was an illusion. He blinked several times, but the scene didn’t shift. There was no weapon in his hands. Dean didn’t cry out or start to bleed. Even so, Castiel pinched himself to be sure the world was the world. The pinch hurt. He rubbed the place on his arm in relief.

The glass vial lay empty on the nightstand. 

“Where’s Claire?” Castiel said. 

“Sam said that she woke up a little while ago. They were running out to get something to eat.” Dean swallowed. “Are they...back? Your memories?”

Castiel smiled. He remembered the details from the dream he’d just woken from. It wasn’t only a dream; it was a memory. He could feel the grass in front of the Novak house, smell the inside of the police station. He remembered the size and warmth of Marjorie’s hand. 

He remembered leaving Dean.

But as soon as he tried to recall the day before that, he faced a blank wall. He searched for something he knew he would never forget: the first time he’d met Dean. It wasn’t there. The only details he knew were from a nightmare. 

The grace hadn’t worked. Claire had suffered and it hadn’t worked. 

Inside, he felt strangely peaceful. Resigned, maybe. He hadn’t held out much hope to begin with and had no expectation of what he might’ve recovered, but Dean...

Dean was brushing his fingers through Castiel’s hair, looking at him hopefully. Though it hurt because he knew it would hurt Dean, Castiel shook his head. 

“I’m sorry. Everything is still in pieces.”

Dean looked as though he were about to cry. He pressed his lips together and nodded several times, taking his hand away. 

Castiel caught his wrist. “Maybe they need time to be restored,” he said.

Dean shook off his hand. “Maybe we need to accept reality. After all, we had no idea what was gonna happen when you…” He cleared his throat and looked at the mattress between them. “You made it back to us. That’s what matters.”

“Dean...if we were like that before, we can be that way again.”

“I don’t want you to force yourself.”

“I’m not forcing anything. I...I _feel_ things for you. I have dreamed about you so many times.” Castiel’s face went hot admitting that, but he kept talking. “I know I’m not the person you fell in love with—maybe I’ll never be that person again—but please let me get to know you.”

It probably wasn’t fair, what he was asking, but he didn’t care about fair or right just then. Dean thought about it for a minute and licked his lips.

“What do you, uh. What do you have in mind?”

“Dinner?” Castiel had read about dates in books and seen plenty in Dean’s TV shows. 

“I could eat,” Dean said. “That diner down the road is open twenty-four hours. If we start walking, we might catch Sam and Claire.”

“I’d like to eat with _you_,” Castiel said and hoped his meaning got across.

“Oh.” Dean rubbed his mouth, sounding a little pleased. “We can wait until they get back.”

Castiel felt happy. He looked down at his clothes and realized he was in no state to leave the room. He’d sweated through his shirt. “I should shower,” he said.

“If you don’t have a clean shirt, you can borrow one of mine.”

Castiel had packed three, but he took a hot shower and borrowed one anyway. They met Sam in the hallway to get the car keys. Claire had already gone to her room. When Sam looked at him with hopeful eyes, Castiel smiled kindly and shook his head. 

“Maybe it takes time,” Sam said.

“Maybe,” Castiel agreed. 

As he and Dean walked down the hallway, Castiel did notice that he felt different. Lighter in his step. He felt lighter all over, like he’d set down a heavy load he’d been carrying.

“What’s with that look?” Dean said in the elevator.

“Am I making a face?” Castiel said.

“Looked like you were about to laugh at something.”

“I feel good. I don’t know how to describe it. I haven’t felt this good since...well, since I can remember.”

“It’s probably the grace,” Dean said. He tapped his head. The elevator descended. “Can you, uh...hear them?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

They moseyed through the lobby. Dean aimed a smile at a dark-haired young man behind the counter who was shamelessly flirting with his stoic coworker.

“Excuse me,” Dean said. “Is that diner the best place for dinner around here?”

“Yes,” said the coworker, not raising his light eyes from the computer. The other one flapped his hand and laughed.

“Ignore him. They have terrible food where he’s from. He can’t help himself. Do you like spicy stuff?”

He scrawled directions to a Sichuan place in red ink on a scrap of yellow paper and sent them off with a wink. They ordered three kinds of spare ribs. Dean got a beer and drank half of it in a swig.

“So, what do you want to know?” he said, wiping his sleeve across his mouth.

“You and I are...married?” Castiel said.

“Yeah. It’s not official. Kinda hard when you’re...” He motioned at Castiel. “And I’ve been on the most wanted list, so we didn’t apply for a license or anything.”

Castiel could infer what Dean didn’t say, that there was nothing formally tying them together. It was an out. 

“Do you have pictures?” he asked.

Dean hesitated, his eyebrows drawing together, but took out his phone. He tapped it a few times and passed it to Castiel. 

“Sam took them, so they’re crooked. There are a few if you scroll forward from there.”

In the pictures, Castiel saw himself and Dean in suits standing in front of a church altar. Dean was beaming.

“I thought it wasn’t official?” Castiel said.

“The pastor owed us a favor. It wouldn’t hold up in court, though.”

“A favor?”

“He was having a problem with a tulpa. That’s him.” Dean pointed to a man with graying hair in the next picture. “Anyway, after that, we got a place near the beach for a couple nights.”

“What did Sam do?”

“Get a tan,” Dean said. “I think he went to a spa.”

A server brought out their food. They chatted while they ate. Castiel continued to ask about details from his nightmares. 

“I don’t remember a warehouse,” Dean said, frowning. “What were we doing there?”

Castiel changed the subject. 

* * *

Dean refused to let him leave the tip. The staff had changed when they returned to the hotel, so they couldn’t thank the two employees for their recommendation and instead went up to their room. Dean showered and changed into shorts, eyeing the double beds as he rubbed a towel over his hair. 

“Sam said he’ll be up in a while. Guess they’ve got a twenty-four hour coffee bar. Kid’s probably wired. He and I can bunk together. Why don’t you take the one by the window?”

“Let Sam have his own bed,” Castiel said.

They got into bed from different sides and watched television until Dean complained there was nothing on and switched it off, tossing the remote aside. Castiel listened to him settle in. The sheets were thick and felt rough against his skin, like the sheets at the shelter. He turned his head to the side.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for dinner.”

Dean’s laughter had an edge of desperation. “I told you, you don’t have to keep thanking me for stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because...” Dean sighed. “Taking care of each other was part of the deal.”

Castiel’s chest felt tight. A warm feeling surged through his body. He opened his mouth, about to say something else, when the door handle rattled and Sam came into the room. 

“Seriously?” Dean said.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Sam whispered, setting down a bag. He didn’t turn on the light but switched on the one in the bathroom. “I got caught up listening to a podcast.”

“We just went to bed.” Dean folded an arm over his eyes. “That one’s yours. Claire still doing okay?” 

“She’s back in her room,” Sam said. “She was pretty talkative at dinner. Ordered three desserts. She promised to meet us in the morning. Cas, are you...?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“His appetite’s back,” Dean said. “He ate more than me.”

Sam laughed. “That’s something. I’m gonna grab a shower.” He went into the bathroom. 

With the door closed, the room was dark again, and though he was close enough that Castiel could sense his warmth, Dean felt far away.

“Good night,” Castiel said.

“Night, Cas.”

* * *

Sam was out of bed with the sun, tinkering with the in-room coffee maker. Dean glared until Sam put a mug in his hands and then reluctantly followed Castiel out of bed. 

They met Claire in the lobby for breakfast. Dean brightened when he saw the spread and loaded a tray with food. Claire was sitting in a corner wearing the ripped green sweatshirt she’d had on in the diner. The hood was drawn, hiding the bandaid on her neck. She’d made a thick waffle and drenched it with syrup, then stabbed it with a fork and dragged a knife through it, cutting it into shreds. The three of them watched her cautiously.

“Uh, Claire,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “You know you’re welcome to come back with us.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” she said, shoving a three-inch stack in her mouth.

“You can call us,” Sam said. “Anytime you need something.”

She widened her eyes and nodded, speaking around the food. “Yeah, I know. Look, I did what you want. You can stop sucking up to me now.”

“That’s not what this is,” Sam said. “We’d offer even if you’d turned us down.”

“Whatever.”

“Claire,” Castiel said. 

“Don’t use the dad tone, it’s so gross.”

“I didn’t…” Castiel looked to Dean. “What’s a ‘dad tone’?”

Dean shook his head as if to say not to worry about it. “Where are you headed after this?” he asked Claire.

She sucked whipped cream from her thumb. “How is that your business?”

“Believe it or not, we feel responsible for you.”

She snorted and glanced to Castiel. “So are you back up and running or what?”

Lying felt wrong, but Castiel didn’t want to tell her the transfer hadn’t been the success Sam had hoped for. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “You’ve given something tremendous back to me.”

She tugged on the strings of her hoodie and pushed it off of her head. “Can you take the sting out?” she said, turning her neck toward him. “It hurts whenever I move.”

Dean shifted nervously. Sam caught his eyes across the table and gave him a hopeful shrug. Holding his breath, Castiel touched his fingertips to the bandage. 

At first, nothing happened. Worried they would draw a scene, he looked around them, but it didn’t seem that any of the other diners were paying attention to them. He concentrated his energy on the tips of his fingers. They grew warm, tingling. Pale blue light twisted from them as from a candle, vanishing into her neck. After a few seconds had passed, Claire’s shoulders relaxed. She ripped off the bandage and balled it up with her napkin. 

“How’s it look?” she said. 

“Like it never happened,” Sam said. 

She refused the wad of cash Dean tried to hand her. 

“Do you have any idea how the things you do could be interpreted by other people?” she hissed. “Learn some self awareness.” She aimed a thumb at Castiel. “Besides, I’ve got plenty, thanks to him.”

“Can we drop you somewhere?” Dean said.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here for a few more days.”

She walked with them out to the parking lot. And though she rolled her eyes at their attempts to say goodbye, she waved as they drove off. 


	8. Chapter 8

The past came back to him in pieces, rarely any two connected. Sometimes a memory drifted in out of context, leaving him speechless while he tried to understand and catalogue it. Dean and Sam had gotten used to those moments when Castiel would go quiet.

Most of his history remained a puzzle. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. He was still without an explanation for them, but he had Dean’s assurance that there had been no fight in a warehouse.

He sent an email to Marjorie on a laptop Sam gave him. He asked how Eric was doing with the store. She said they all missed him and to visit if he was ever in the area again. He had a feeling she said that to everyone, but it didn’t make the sentiment less sincere.

His newfound ability to heal, weak as it was, was enough for him to argue a seat in the Impala when Dean left for hunts. The three of them traveled the country, and Castiel learned evil did not exist merely in books.

From the little he’d learned about angels from Sam and Dean, he wondered if he ought to count himself among the evil things. He wasn’t sure how he should think about himself. He wasn’t human, but he wasn’t entirely an angel either, just as he belonged to Dean and yet...didn’t.

Nothing had happened between them since the hotel room. They had returned to their separate bedrooms, and when the three of them stayed in a motel, Castiel was just as likely to bunk with Sam as he was with Dean. More often than not, there was a couch in the room, and the three of them slept separately.

But there had been a change. In the mornings, when he and Dean sat at the kitchen table going over the newspaper, Castiel could feel the longing rolling off of him like smoke. He hadn’t been able to sense that before. When they bent their heads together to look at the same article, it would surge, washing over him. Every time, he had to stop himself from reaching out and touching Dean, reminding himself that he was not the person Dean loved, not exactly.

* * *

On a hunt in Minnesota when Dean put himself between a ghoul and Sam, Castiel watched as he fell to the ground, covered in blood. It should have terrified him, seeing Dean hurt like that, but for once, Castiel had not been the one to hurt him. He was on his knees, hands framing Dean’s face, transferring grace into him as quickly as it would flow while Sam took care of the ghoul.

Dean’s face was pale. He hadn’t opened his eyes, but Castiel could feel life emanating from him. It grew stronger the more grace he transferred. Was there a chance of transferring too much? He didn’t care. He kept his hands on Dean’s face.

Minutes passed. Castiel’s vision grew hazy. He swayed on his knees and closed his eyes, but he continued to pass grace to Dean. Sam rushed back and knelt down beside them. The foul stench of ghoul blood hung on his coat.

“Cas, he’s not bleeding anymore. You can stop.”

He didn’t stop. He forced the grace out of himself.

Sam put his hands on Castiel’s wrists and drew his hands back from Dean’s face.

“He’s fine. He’s just unconscious.”

Castiel’s hands were shaking. His fingertips hovered above Dean’s skin, but in Sam’s grip, he couldn’t reach him.

“Please,” he said, straining. “Let me...”

“Kill yourself? No thanks. Take a breath.”

Castiel did. It came out as a sob. Sam held him against his shoulder. With so little grace left in him, Castiel went limp against him. Sam’s hair tickled his ear.

“Thanks for saving him,” Sam said, patting his back.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Castiel said.

“I know. I’m still grateful.”

He helped Castiel to sit against a tree and covered Dean with his coat, then stood, rubbing his arms, and surveyed their surroundings.

“Well, we’re not going anywhere with the two of you in this condition. Might as well make a fire.”

He had one roaring in a few minutes. They sat on opposite sides to warm their hands. The ground was damp. Castiel could feel it through his pants. All around them, insects trilled unseen. Under the coat, Dean had started to sweat. There was a sheen on his forehead. He moaned, and Castiel crawled to him across the leaf-strewn forest floor.

“Dean?”

“Tell me we got the bastard,” Dean mumbled.

“We got him,” Sam said.

“Where are we?”

“Same place we were. As soon as you’re up for walking, we can head back to the motel.”

“Surprised you two didn’t carry me out of here.”

“I wasn’t carrying both of you,” Sam said.

Dean opened his eyes and squinted at Castiel. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Castiel said. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck. Help me sit up.”

Castiel gripped Dean’s hand and shoulder, and pulled him upright. Dean’s face was golden in the firelight. With his sleeve, Castiel tried to clean the blood away. Dean caught his arm.

“You’ll make a mess out of your coat.”

“It’s just a coat,” Castiel said and pulled his hand free, wiping the blood from Dean’s cheek. He had no more grace to give; it hadn’t regenerated yet, and the lack of it had made him weak. His body was shaking, which Dean took for nerves. Maybe they were.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “I’m fine.”

Overwhelmed, Castiel leaned forward. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Dean’s. Dean smelled like blood and decaying leaves. Castiel held his breath. Dean put an arm around his neck and kissed back, opening his mouth.

Sam coughed. “Hey, so I’m still here,” he said.

“Sorry,” Dean said, pulling Castiel closer for a moment, then releasing him with a pat to his shoulder. He struggled to his feet and dropped the coat on Sam’s head.

“Put that fire out. Let’s get back to the car.”

“Cas, can you walk?” Sam said.

Dean frowned. “Why wouldn’t Cas be able to walk?”

Sam looked at Castiel with apology. Castiel sighed.

“I expended a good deal of my grace trying to heal you,” he said, figuring it was best to tell him.

Dean rubbed his face. Castiel expected to be scolded, but Dean took a deep breath and offered his hands, pulling Castiel to his feet. He kept an arm behind his back on the walk to the car and relinquished the keys to Sam.

Castiel sat alone in the back seat, letting the window hold him up. Dean spoke to Sam during the ride. He turned his head occasionally, glancing back at Castiel, but didn’t speak to him. Dean was angry. He could sense it, and it made him feel worse than the lack of grace.

Back at the motel, they took turns showering. Dean was first; Sam last. As soon as the bathroom door shut behind him, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the room, he was filled with dread. He crawled into the bed closer to the bathroom, a signal that he would share with Sam today, but the mattress dipped behind him. The waves coming off of Dean felt less like anger now and more...confusion? Surprised, Castiel turned over.

“What was that about earlier?” Dean said. He lay on top of the covers in a t-shirt and shorts, his head propped on an arm.

Reddening, Castiel touched his own lips. “Was it not okay?” he said. Maybe he’d done it wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it at all.

Dean cracked a smile. “Oh, that...that was fine,” he said. “Just caught me by surprise. But that’s not what I was talking about. I meant you burning up your grace.”

He hadn’t burned it up, exactly. It was already regenerating. Castiel could feel the strength returning to his body, but he knew that wasn’t Dean’s point. “I hate seeing you injured,” he said.

“Being injured comes with the job.” Dean had been frowning, but it softened into a more desperate expression. “Look, Cas. I don’t mind if you heal me, but don’t you ever come close to burning yourself out. If anything happened to you again, I don’t know if I could...”

Castiel didn’t promise him anything. Instead he kissed Dean—not in the frenzied way he’d done in the woods, but steadily. His heart felt calm.

In his mind, an image flickered like a wisp of flame: Dean’s mouth on his in a motel room. Castiel was wearing a blue vest and a name tag that said Steve. There was no grace in his body and he was exhausted, but he put his arms around Dean’s neck.

Castiel pulled back from Dean slightly. “Have I ever used the alias Steve?”

“Probably. We change our identities all the time. Why?”

“Did I used to wear a blue vest?”

“You’ve worn pretty much the same thing since I met you, except for that time you were...” Dean trailed off and reached for his phone. He scrolled through it for a moment and turned the screen around.

“Is this the vest you’re talking about?” he said.

It was royal blue. Castiel and Dean were standing in front of a convenience store.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “When I kissed you just now, I thought about this. What’s the significance?”

Dean rubbed his neck. “A lot of first times happened that night.”

Castiel smiled and was about to kiss Dean again when Sam peeked out of the bathroom.

“Is it safe?” he said.

“I’m too tired to mess around,” Dean said. “Anyway, when have we ever done that with you in the room?”

“Houston,” Sam and Castiel said simultaneously, and Sam laughed.

“You remember that?” Sam said, toweling his hair as he went to the other bed.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel said. “It just came to me.”

“Well, I do,” Sam said. “And I don’t want a repeat. Good night.”

That night, Castiel learned that he knew how to kiss without making a sound. Sam didn’t stir once. And when Castiel did sleep, Dean’s arms surrounded him.

* * *

What makes a person a person? Castiel pondered this during the drive back to Kansas. The people at the shelter had believed that he was James Novak based on a piece of identification in his wallet. People who had known Jimmy had accepted it as well, although nothing of Jimmy was left in him. He’d even believed it himself for a time, having nothing else to believe back then.

But in spite of possessing Jimmy’s body, his face, his fingerprints, a photograph of him on a driver’s license, Castiel was not him. A person was not a body or an identification card. He would still be himself inside of another vessel. Dean would be Dean, no matter what he looked like. The self was separate from the physical form, and yet to humans, played an intrinsic part of it. He thought of Dean’s expression when Castiel had not recognized him, of Claire’s face when she looked at him and saw a stranger stare out through her father’s eyes.

He was not the Castiel he had found photographs of on the internet. He was not the Castiel who had torn out his grace. He might never be. But he was Castiel. He was Dean’s, even empty.

That night, Dean came to his room. He stayed in the doorway, like he had when he and Sam had shown Castiel around the bunker his first night home.

“Won’t you come in?” Castiel said. Dean looked at the floor, then took a step across the threshold.

“Haven’t been in here since you...”

Castiel nodded. It wasn’t a good memory.

“Brought you something,” Dean said. He held out his hand. Castiel put his out, palm up, and Dean dropped something into it—the ring he’d shown Castiel in Illinois. He still didn’t recognize it, but now he understood the significance.

“You said to give this back to you,” Dean said. He sniffed and stuck his hands in his pockets, glancing away. He’d just come from the shower. His hair was still wet, his skin pink. Castiel could sense his anxiety.

“Is it alright if I wear it?” he said.

“If you want.”

“Would you put it on for me?”

Dean hadn’t expected that. Castiel caught a wave of his surprise as Dean stepped closer, as he slid the ring onto Castiel’s fourth finger. The surprise turned to pleasure. Dean was happy.

“I don’t remember my vows,” Castiel said.

“You...” Dean licked his lips and squeezed his hand. “You said you’d stay with me.”

“I want to stay with you,” Castiel said. “If that’s what _you_ want.”

“I want to kiss you again.”

His heart pounding, Castiel leaned forward. He wasn’t afraid.

Some time later, they ended up on the bed. The inside of Dean’s mouth was warm. The inside of his body was warmer and tightened every time Castiel moved his hips.

“Do you remember this?” Dean said. His face was wet with tears. Castiel bent to kiss it in apology, reaching between them. Dean gasped when he touched him and crossed his ankles behind Castiel’s back.

“When was the first time?” Castiel said.

“God, was it three years ago?” Dean laughed. His face was flushed. He tightened his arms around Castiel’s neck. “I can’t remember. Guess that makes us even.”

Castiel laughed breathlessly. “Are you close?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Yes, although I don’t want it to be over.”

“We don’t have anything planned for tomorrow,” Dean said. “We can do it again.” His breathing was ragged. He shuddered as he climaxed and clung to Castiel’s shoulders afterwards.

“Should I bring you something to clean up?” Castiel said after a while. They had settled against each other but not separated.

Dean shook his head.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Dean kissed him. “Just didn’t think we’d get to do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said.

“You don’t have to say that to me.”

“Maybe not, but I want to.”

He pressed his face to the curve where Dean’s neck met his shoulder, inhaling. He never wanted to forget this moment, the way that Dean felt in his arms, the scent of his skin. The dreams, despite their detail, had lacked that one.

He had fallen asleep to this scent before; he had been wrapped up in it. He knew it, mixed with his own scent or left on a pillowcase. There might not be memories to go along with it yet, but he basked in something familiar.

“Talk to me,” he said.

“About what?”

“Anything. Just let me hear your voice.”

“You’re heavy,” Dean said. He laughed and kissed the side of Castiel’s face. “I love you, Cas.”

Castiel stilled. He couldn’t be sure, but he felt this was his first time hearing those words. He smiled against Dean’s neck. “I know.”

* * *

Castiel stood before an altar. He stood facing Dean inside a church with red doors. Dean wore a suit Castiel had seen him wear dozens of times before, but he looked different from the everyday. On the suit was pinned a single rose, and on his face was a smile lovelier than Castiel had ever seen. Dean was holding both of his hands, and when the pastor asked if he would pledge himself to Castiel for life, Dean slid a ring onto Castiel’s finger and replied, “I will.”

He was still smiling when Castiel struck him. He didn’t let go of his hands.

Castiel was standing inside a warehouse. He was standing in a crypt. His angel blade was in his fist, and his hands were inside of Dean’s hands. He looked down upon Dean’s swollen face. His blood was wet on Castiel’s knuckles from striking him.

“Will you take this man,” the pastor was saying, “in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, when your love is easy and when it is difficult...”

Castiel blinked and Naomi stood in front of him. “End this,” she said.

Blood spilled from Dean’s lip, the color of the rose he wore. Castiel did not want to strike him again, but he raised his fist. It trembled in his peripheral vision.

“Kill him,” Naomi said.

“Say, ‘I will,’” the pastor said.

Castiel was frozen.

“Cas,” Dean said miserably, swaying on his knees. “I know you can hear me.”

He wore a hunter’s clothes; he wore a suit. His face was bloody and swollen. His face was beautiful. In the warehouse, Naomi was shouting. Castiel could see her mouth move, but there was no longer any sound coming out of it. All he could hear was Dean begging on his knees in the crypt. The warehouse dissolved into a sea of colors and didn’t exist anymore. Naomi didn’t exist anymore. The crypt was a crypt until it wasn’t and Dean was kneeling in front of an altar. He wore a black suit, smiling at Castiel on their wedding day. There was no blood.

Castiel fell to his knees.

“Why am I doing this?” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dean smiled. He reached over to straighten the rose on Castiel’s lapel. “Then don’t.”

“But I could. Aren’t you afraid of that?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “But I’ve always been a gambling man.”

He held out his left hand. Castiel took the ring from his pocket and slid it onto Dean’s finger. Dean put that hand to Castiel’s cheek. The ring warmed to his skin and Castiel closed his eyes, leaning his face against Dean’s palm, suddenly tired. He felt happy. He felt _home_. His choices were his, as was this life, this body, the pieces of the past returning to him bit by bit. And Dean.

“Will you take this man?” the pastor said.

Castiel dropped the blade.

x

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic in divorce court, seated at the end of a long hallway, with shaking hands, in a new pocket Moleskine I’d set aside just for it. Things happened that year and in the end, I wrote something else for the DCBB. But four years later, I dusted it off. I’m glad I waited to finish it. Writing the last words was pretty therapeutic. 
> 
> The pictures on the wall at Days Inn in this fic are not actually Dean/Cas references, but a description of real photos from the Days Inn website. Internet details are accurate as of 2015. The shelter in this story is based on one in Bloomington, approximately 45 minutes from Pontiac. At the time I researched this, it was the closest option with residency and does have its own store. The zoo, library, and hotel are based on real locations as well. Dean and Cas honeymooned at the shore.
> 
> Thank you to Rachael for such a thoughtful beta job and for the library info; to Mary for the incredible art (I’m so glad we finally got to work together!) and for consulting on Claire’s wardrobe; to Riley and Jojo for looking over the original outline in 2015; to Lauren for consulting on case workers and shelter details; and to the #ficwip chat for getting me through the last legs of this.
> 
> I hope someone spotted the wangxian cameo. 🍎🐇
> 
> [Art Masterpost](https://sketchydean.tumblr.com/post/188567896806/my-pieces-for-the-dcbb-2019-created-for-a) by sketchydean | [Writing Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IQyXiegLYb6feeePIMIYP)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far ♥ I’m [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/museawayfic) if you want to say hello!


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